Shadows of the Dark Lord
by sarap1993
Summary: 20 years later, Harry's nightmares are back. Visions lead him to a mysterious island. When he unearths the secrets within, the wizarding world will be changed forever. After all this time, after 20 peaceful years, could the Dark Lord be returning?
1. Prologue

At first it was an old dream. A high, cold laugh, a woman's scream, a blinding flash of green light - and Harry woke with a start, his scar paining him for the first time in twenty years. He ignored it. It didn't mean anything, he told himself.

The next night, Harry dreamt of a glinting blood-red stone and a man with two faces. Stress, he told himself. The next, a black leather-bound diary, a fifty-year-old boy and a pair of piercing yellow eyes: just dreams, he reassured himself. Last week he had dreamt he was being eaten by a fifty-foot-tall Chocolate Frog. These nightmares meant nothing. They were only dreams...

The next night Harry was back in the village of Little Hangleton's graveyard as Lord Voldemort was reborn. Pale, spidery hands reached out for Harry: he jerked awake, heart hammering, scar throbbing. Beside him in the bed they shared, Ginny slept on oblivious.

Over the next week more almost-forgotten faces followed: Sirius, falling through the archway in the Department of Mysteries; Dumbledore, blasted off the roof of the Astronomy Tower; Alastor Moody, Peter Pettigrew, Fred Weasley, Severus Snape, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Colin Creevey...

Harry was soon afraid to sleep. But then, abruptly, the nightmares stopped. Harry enjoyed several nights of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep; afterwards, he scolded himself for his panicking. Voldemort was dead, he reminded himself. The wizarding world had been at peace for twenty years. Despite the persistent prickling of his lightning scar, all was well.

It was two weeks later that he first dreamt of the tower: jagged, black, standing five hundred feet tall on a storm-battered island. Harry was sure he had never seen it before, but now every night he found himself standing beneath the tower's dark mass in the driving rain, hurrying inside, climbing the rough-hewn steps, climbing higher and higher and higher each night but never ever quite managing to reach the top...

It had taken him months to find it.

Sea-spray stung Harry's face as he stared, disbelieving, at the edifice that rose from the island rock before him like some twisted, monstrous flower. For a blessed moment he forgot the tormenting of his scar. The tower seemed at once both organic and deeply unnatural: ebbing here, flowing there, here showing a smooth reflective face, there offering a razor-sharp edge.

Harry cast his broomstick aside and started forward. This was an island in courtesy only - a flat slab of volcanic rock smaller than a Quidditch pitch two miles out to sea - and the tower stood alone at its exact centre. As Harry approached it loomed over him and he felt a familiar, unpleasant sensation: it was as if he were wearing Voldemort's Horcruxed locket around his neck again.

He shook his head, but the action failed to dispel either the tower's sapping haze or the ever-intensifying pain in his forehead. Harry gritted his teeth and pushed on. When he neared the tower, a section of its exterior melted away to reveal a darkened entrance. Harry lit his wand and peered inside. Narrow stairs twisted claustrophobically upwards and out of sight.

Harry climbed the steps in silence. The tower's power was stronger now: easing Harry's nerves, soothing the pain in his temple, beckoning him forwards and upwards. Harry found himself wondering what supernatural force had so doggedly drawn him here. This tower was surely Voldemort's work, but Voldemort was dead. Harry had seen him die. Harry had killed him. So what could possibly await him at the end of this stairway?

Harry soon found out. As the pain in his scar rose to a sudden, frenzied peak, a foul-smelling gust of wind swept down the stairway and snuffed his wandlight out. Harry was plunged into utter darkness. He took a long moment to steady himself against a rough stone wall. The sensory deprivation was almost total; it was broken only by the sound of heavy, frantic breathing. Harry was in the process of ordering himself to calm down when he realised - he had been holding his breath ever since his wandlight had been extinguished.

He wasn't alone in the stairway. And whoever or whatever it was that was making such a din behind him - panting, growling, stumbling around, clattering into walls - was close, and moving closer. " _Lumos!_ " Harry whispered urgently. There was no response from the phoenix-feather wand that had always been such a faithful servant. Blind and helpless, Harry had no other choice but to stretch his arms out in front of himself and begin feeling his way forward inch by inch.

Harry soon lost all sense of time in the darkness. He could only keep putting one foot in front of the other. With each step came another scream of protestation from his scar and something new for him to stumble over -loose rocks, uneven stairs, other, stranger things. With each step, the noises behind grew closer and louder. With each step, the darkness ahead remained utterly impenetrable.

Then Harry's hand closed upon something soft and warm. As he yelled and leapt back, emerald-green lanterns all around burst into life. Harry span in a frantic circle, wand in hand. He had stumbled from the stairway onto the floor of a grand circular amphitheatre, he saw. There was no sign of his pursuer. The amphitheatre's walls were composed of the same flowing black stone as the tower; they reached up and up past rings of broken benches to a distant stalactite-strewn ceiling. Chained to a post in the centre of the amphitheatre floor was the boy into whom Harry had blundered in the darkness.

Somehow, Harry recognised him. Though his scar was paining him as it hadn't in twenty years, he stepped helplessly closer. The boy was secured to the wooden post at his wrists and ankles by heavy iron chains. Tattered grey rags preserved his modesty. Beneath a mop of black hair his eyes were closed in deep sleep; though he could not have been more than ten years old the handsome looks that would fool and ensnare so many were already well evident. Harry had seen this boy before - in a memory. Incredulous, he reached out a hand to be certain this was not some trick or apparition.

At Harry's touch the boy jerked upright. "Where am I?" he demanded, wrenching at his chains. "Who are you?"

Any answer Harry might have given was forestalled by the blinding stab of pain that shot through his skull when the boy's panicked and wild eyes met his. He cried out, swayed, fell. His vision went black. The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was a pair of monstrous scarlet eyes peering down at him.


	2. The Riddle Trial

_The Riddle Trial_

* * *

"He's feral, Hermione."

"Feral?" The word was a frightened whisper.

"Yes," Harry replied simply, glancing over his shoulder towards the black-haired boy. Harry had placed him in the corner of Hermione's office fifteen minutes ago; the boy had not moved since. He sat, still as the grave, staring blankly into space with those unsettling scarlet eyes of his. "He can't speak, or he won't. He barely even moves. I had to carry him here." Harry stole another glance at the pale-skinned boy, and frowned, an involuntary shiver running down his spine. "Hermione, I have no idea what we're going to do."

Hermione sat at the other side of her desk, dressed in the deep-blue robes of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, her bushy-brown hair pulled back into a neat bun. A small plaque on her neatly-organised desk read _Head of Department._ She took a long time to respond, her eyes narrowed in thought, her features an unreadable mask, and Harry found himself starting to panic. He'd been sure that Hermione of all people would understand, that she would help him. But what if she didn't?

"Hermione-"

"Tell me again how it happened, Harry," Hermione said suddenly. "Tell me how you found him."

Stomach churning, Harry recounted his story to Hermione; how he had descended through the tower, how he had found the black-haired boy, the spitting image of Lord Voldemort at eleven years old, chained up in the jaws of a colossal snake-statue. The boy had been in some sort of sleeping trance, but when Harry had untied the boy's chains, those unsettling eyes had flickered open. Harry told Hermione how he had brought the boy back to the Ministry, smuggling him straight into Hermione's office beneath his Invisibility Cloak - though he omitted the part of the tale that involved his recurring visions of the tower. He had a feeling Hermione might frown upon those.

When he was done, Harry glanced again at the boy, sitting behind him in a darkened corner of Hermione's cramped office. This time, however, the black-haired boy met Harry's gaze. His pale, pallid face turned slowly to face Harry's own, and Harry released an involuntary wince as the boy's scarlet eyes swept over him. With long-practised instinct, his hand rose to rub his scar soothingly.

"Something wrong?" Hermione asked immediately, her voice concerned. "Is your scar hurting again?"

"No," Harry said quickly. He didn't want to start a panic; the last thing he wanted was Hermione fretting over nothing - or headlines like _You-Know-Who Returns_ in the news, for that matter. "It's just when he looks at me."

Hermione's concerns didn't look entirely assuaged. She stared past Harry for a long moment, her dark-brown eyes focused on the black-haired boy, her lips pursed in worry in a very Mrs. Weasley-ish manner. Harry felt it wouldn't be wise to mention that to her either.

"So, Hermione," he said urgently, as her eyes slid back to his, "what - what should we _do_ with him?"

Again, Hermione took a long while to answer. Time was, Harry thought, Hermione wouldn't have let a moment pass with a mystery like this on the table; she'd have dashed off to the library already, with barely a muttered word to Harry and Ron to explain her intent. That was a long time ago, though.

"I think," she said eventually, "that we don't know nearly enough about - _him_ \- to even _begin_ discussing what to do. I mean, _what_ is he? How was he created? How long was he in that tower? What _was_ that tower? Can he speak? Can he think? Is he just a boy, or is he like a Horcrux - just another part of Voldemort's soul?" Her eyes flitted back to the black-haired boy, skinny and ragged in the corner, before she continued, her voice a hushed whisper. "Is he dangerous?"

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry mumbled weakly.

"Neither do I," said Hermione, her tone frank. "This is bigger than you or me."

"Kingsley-"

"Bigger than the Minister," she interrupted smoothly. "This has to go to the Wizengamot."

"Hermione... the _Wizengamot_?" Harry spluttered. "You really think that's the best idea? I mean, _Malfoy_ is on the Wizengamot!" Again, as if magnetically drawn to the small, silent boy, he glanced over his shoulder. Those crimson eyes, strangely bright in the half-darkness, were fixed, unblinking, on the boy's bare feet. "You really want to put him in front of _that_?"

"I don't think we have a choice."

"But - like you said, we don't know anything!" Harry exclaimed. "If we take this to the public now, there'll be a panic. If we wait, try to figure out what's going on..."

"No more secrets," Hermione replied calmly. "That's what we said when we joined the Ministry. It's time to stick to that, Harry." Her expression softened slightly, and she reached across the desk to squeeze Harry's arm reassuringly. "This is too big. You're worried about starting a panic? Imagine if word got out that we were sneaking Voldemort's _son_ around the Ministry. Don't worry, Harry. Whatever is going on, it'll all come out in front of the Wizengamot. We'll do right by him." Releasing her grip on Harry's arm, she stood up. "I'd better go tell Kingsley."

Harry didn't envy Hermione _that_ conversation. As Hermione stepped around her desk and walked, heels _clicking_ softly, towards the door, Harry half-turned in his chair towards her.

"He's not Voldemort's son," he said, as Hermione glanced over her shoulder towards him. "He wasn't the fatherly type."

Flashing Harry a reassuring smile, Hermione pulled her office door open. Outside, life went on as normal. "No, he was not."

"How d'you think they'll react?" Harry asked softly. "The Wizengamot, I mean?"

She smiled thinly. "Not well, I imagine. But we have to try."

She turned, and was gone. As she left, Harry couldn't help but notice the boy's scarlet eyes follow Hermione from the room. Wide, cat-like crimson eyes, animalistic - but, still, oddly intelligent, and Harry found Hermione's parting words ringing in his ears. _What is he_? Harry was sure that the black-haired boy - Tom, he supposed suddenly, he couldn't be 'the boy' forever - was not Voldemort's son. Harry doubted whether Voldemort had ever wanted anything besides power. Voldemort had always claimed to have pushed the boundaries of magic, though - could he have created Tom? It was certainly possible. Why was Tom locked up in that tower, though? And why was he still a child when Voldemort died nineteen years ago?

If Tom was an accident, why did Voldemort allow him to live?

* * *

The black-haired boy was scared. He had been asleep for so, so long, curled up in the comforting coils of his dreams - dreams of hooded men, and ghostly skulls in the sky - but now, for the first time in his life, he was awake. He was alive. Alive, awake - but still chained. They coiled around his wrists, harsh, cold works of metal digging into his skin, drawing beady-drops of crimson blood that trickled, _drop-drop-drop_ , to the stone below. For the hundredth time, he tried to loosen the chains slightly; immediately, they contracted, and the boy winced as fresh rivulets of blood flowed down his wrists.

It wasn't the chains that frightened the boy, however. It wasn't even being alive. It was the people. They sat on grand, circular stone benches, hundreds of them, rising up, and up, and up, a great sea of deep-plum robes and glinting three-pronged silver brooches. They stared down at the boy as if he were some caged animal. He could see their revulsion, their hate, their fear - but, most of all, the black-haired boy saw confusion in their eyes. They stared down, at the boy with gleaming red eyes and skin as pale as milk, and wondered what they saw. They jabbered to themselves in some language the boy did not know, this crowd, but the meaning of their whispers was evident; they were discussing him.

They stared down at the black-haired boy, and he stared back. Sweeping the crowd, his scarlet gaze found a middle-aged man with receding white-blonde hair, a pale, pointed face, and a tiny little wisp of a goatee upon his chin. When their eyes met, the blonde-haired man's face whitened, and he hurriedly looked away, striking up a conversation with the red-haired, freckle-faced woman who sat beside him. Or, at least, attempted to. The boy watched curiously as the red-haired woman turned away, her arms folded across her chest. Her brown eyes met the boy's for a moment; the woman's face betrayed no fear, but her grip tightened on the stone bench, and her knuckles whitened.

Movement, and the sudden, rapid clatter of footsteps on stone caught the boy's attention. Behind him, three important-looking people swept into the room. Two, the boy recognised; the other was unfamiliar. Walking at the head of the trio was an elderly dark-skinned man in purple-and-gold robes; he wore a golden earring in his ear. The dark-skinned man was conversing quietly with the man to his left, who the boy recognised; it was the thin black-haired man with piercing green eyes, who had freed the boy and brought him here. He had the most curious scar on his forehead, almost like a bolt of lightning. The third new arrival, walking on the dark-skinned man's right, was the bushy-haired woman, dressed in midnight-blue robes, who the black-haired man had brought the boy to after they had left the tower.

Together, the trio crossed the room towards a raised stone table, set in the lowermost row of stone benches. When they took their seats, the low murmuring echoing around the room subsided instantly, replaced by a deathly-tense silence. The bushy-haired woman jabbered a few words in some strange language, then tapped her wand lightly on the stone tabletop before her. It was then that her eyes turned to the boy. Her gaze was unabashedly curious, but there was a hint of sympathy there that was sorely lacking from most of the room's other occupants. The crowd leant forward now in their seats, holding their collective breath as one. The boy supposed they were about to discover what all the fuss was about.

Amongst all the jabbering, the boy suddenly picked out one of the bushy-haired woman's words. A word he knew, somehow. _Riddle._ When she said it, the silence in the room suddenly intensified, as a hundred people forgot to breathe - and then the room descended into uproar. Many leapt to their feet, jabbering and pointing at the boy; some shook their heads in dull disbelief; others shouted, bellowing and screaming across the grand, tall-ceilinged room. The bushy-haired woman, the black-haired man and their companion watched all this with swiftly-deepening expressions of dismay.

The boy suddenly found himself grinning. All this fuss over him? He wasn't sure what he was supposed to have done that was so terrible, but it must have been bad.

* * *

"Order!" Hermione shouted shrilly, again and again, in a futile attempt to forestall the chaos that had overcome Courtroom Ten of the Ministry of Magic. Half the Wizengamot were on their feet, bellowing and shouting, heedless of Harry or Hermione or Kingsley or the few others who were trying to restore calm, and instantly Harry knew this had been a mistake.

"You told us You-Know-Who was dead!" yelled one man.

"How can he be back?" cried another.

"No, no, he _can't_ , he _can't_ ," wailed one young blonde woman, sobbing into a silken handkerchief. "He _can't be back!"_

" _KILL HIM_!" someone screamed.

At the sound of that last shout, Kingsley rose to his feet. He boomed a complicated, unfamiliar incantation, and Harry felt a violent, sweeping pulse emanate from the Minister's wand. It shook Harry in his seat, but he was not its intended target. Kingsley's curse silenced the frantic Wizengamot, knocking every single one of them off their feet.

"Enough!" Kingsley snapped, as the crowd began to climb to their feet, groaning. "Return to your seats." Below Harry, Tom watched events unfold, unperturbed, though the pale-skinned boy's curiosity was obvious. Kingsley raised his wand-hand, and the air around Tom's chair shimmered for a second. Harry knew a Shield Charm when he saw one. "Now," Kingsley continued calmly, "Madam Granger will continue." He turned to Hermione expectantly.

Hesitantly, she returned to her feet. "Let me make this clear to you," she said icily. "This is _not_ Lord Voldemort." Even now, half the Wizengamot winced at the name. "This is _not_ in any way a danger or a threat. This is - well, it's strange, but it's nothing we can't address like grown-ups. We're not here to sharpen our pitch-forks, or - or burn him at the stake - we're here to find out what's going on, and why, and discuss what we should do with this boy."

A moment's hushed silence - and then a mocking laugh rung out. All eyes darted to Draco Malfoy as the blonde-haired man rose to his feet.

"He's _not_ Lord Voldemort?" Draco repeated with a mocking sneer. "Oh, consider us all reassured then, Granger, if you _say_ he isn't. Of course, if a big scaly creature with no legs slithered up to me, hissing, I would call that creature a snake, and not an innocent little boy, but perhaps we differ there."

"We're not denying there's some connection-" Hermione began, but Draco quickly cut her off.

"Oh, there's some _connection_ ," he repeated dryly. "How reassuring. There's only _some_ connection to the worst Dark wizard of all time." Worryingly, there were approving nods from a few members of the Wizengamot as Malfoy spoke, and even a flutter of laughter. Emboldened, Malfoy pointed at Tom. "I knew the Dark Lord, and _that's him_."

Hermione wasn't dissuaded easily. "He may be Voldemort's son, or some creation of Dark Magic-"

"That's his body!" Malfoy exclaimed, throwing his arms wide as if inviting the Wizengamot to agree with him. "Not the Dark Lord's son, or cousin, or nephew - _him!_ The Dark Lord always had plans, plans beyond the comprehension of the ordinary wizard. What if he's in there right now? What if this boy shares the mind? The brilliance? The madness?" Malfoy lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper, which nonetheless carried to every corner of the courtroom. "The _urges_?" Malfoy thrust a long, pale finger towards Tom, mute and tiny in the hard-backed wooden chair below. "The Dark Lord has returned, and you want to _discuss it?_ I say we kill him."

"He's too dangerous to be left alive," called one slender dark-haired woman, high up in the seventh row.

"This is _not_ what we are here to do," Hermione snapped, instantly forestalling the worrying mutterings among the Wizengamot. "This boy-"

"Tom," Harry interjected.

"This - Tom - is not on trial. We're not going to execute him for the crime of looking like Voldemort, I hope." Hermione glanced around the courtroom, eyes beseeching. "Are you really that scared of him?" Her eyes found Malfoy. "A little boy?"

"I-"

Malfoy fell silent as Tom began to scream.

Chained before the Wizengamot, he writhed in agony, his scarlet eyes wide and fearful. He screamed and screamed, and suddenly Harry was sprinting down the stairs towards Tom's chair, Hermione hot on his heels. When Harry reached the floor, Tom was still screaming. Harry rushed to the boy's side as he writhed violently from side to side, fighting and twitching and convulsing.

"Tom!" Harry shouted, grabbing the boy's shoulders, but he got no reply. The boy's scarlet eyes gleamed so brightly they seemed almost to be burning. Looking down, Harry noticed that Tom's chains were digging deep, bloody gashes into the boy's wrists. He had to get those off. "Tom, stop!" Harry yelled again, grabbing Tom's wrists, holding them still while he tried to unfasten the chains - and, suddenly, Tom's chains burned white-hot.

Harry leapt back, yelling in pain as the bubbling, boiling metal scalded his hands. For a second, Tom's anguished screams intensified; then the chains shattered into a thousand pieces and, finally, the screaming stopped. The Wizengamot stood still, frozen in fear, as Tom rose to his feet. He took one hesitant step, then collapsed to the floor. Harry rushed to the boy's side, and turned Tom over. The boy's face was paler than ever, his mouth moving wordlessly. His eyes were squeezed shut, and for a moment he could almost have been a normal boy.

Tom's scarlet eyes blinked open. As he sat up, cradled in Harry's arms, he groaned, a low, pained sound.

"I know you," he murmured. "You're Harry Potter."

* * *

"Do you know your name?" Hermione asked, flashing Tom a sympathetic smile. They were in the Minister's spacious office, five of them; Harry, Hermione, Kingsley, Tom and Malfoy. When Kingsley had dismissed the Wizengamot, Malfoy had flat-out refused to leave. Kingsley had tried to order Malfoy away, but several members of the Wizengamot had objected, so here Malfoy was; 'to represent the public', he said. The rest of the Wizengamot had gone home; Harry shuddered to think what sort of tales were already spreading about Tom.

"No," Tom was saying now, his young face showing his growing impatience. "I've _told_ you people, I don't know anything. I don't remember anything besides waking up in that tower and coming here."

"Is your name Tom?" Hermione asked. "Tom Riddle?"

"I don't know!" Tom sat on the opposite side of Kingsley's broad pine-wood desk from the other four, perched uneasily on the edge of an armchair. "Tom Riddle's as good a name as any, I suppose," he added thoughtfully. "Why'd you think I'm called that?"

Hermione glanced, almost imperceptibly, towards Harry. She scrawled something onto a piece of parchment before her and slid it along the desk; _I believe him_ , it read. Harry nodded back, but Malfoy seized the note and began to scribble something himself. When he handed the parchment back, it read _Veritaserum_? Kingsley shook his head.

"Is your name Lord Voldemort?" Hermione asked softly.

"Lord Who?"

Malfoy guffawed loudly at that, and Tom shrank a little into his armchair. "Well, of course he'd say that!" Malfoy exclaimed. He put on a mock high-pitched voice. "Oh, don't look at me, I'm not the Dark Lord, I'm just a nice little boy!"

"You're being ridiculous, Draco," Hermione snapped. She turned to address Kingsley in an urgent whisper. "Minister, you can't believe this - this _rubbish_! Voldemort died nineteen years ago. He's not coming back. This - Tom - is clearly just the leftovers from some twisted experiment of Voldemort's. Voldemort spent years experimenting with Dark magic - this is the result."

"Minister-" Malfoy began.

"Enough," said Kingsley icily. "This boy knows nothing of Voldemort. Frankly, I'm more interested in how he seems to have picked up fluent English over the course of a bad headache."

"There!" said Malfoy, seizing upon a perceived opportunity to prove his point. "He speaks English! How could he, if he were just a normal boy who'd spent his entire life in a cave? Clearly, he-"

"Get out, Malfoy," said Kingsley. "Now."

"You're sending me away?" Malfoy exclaimed incredulously. "I'm a member of the Wizengamot! I - I have a right to be here-"

"I've decided this is no longer a Wizengamot matter. You are not a Ministry official, Malfoy," Kingsley said calmly. "We are, and we, not you, are qualified to make any decision required regarding this boy. Now leave."

For a moment, Malfoy looked as if he were about to argue - then, with a loud _screech_ , he pushed his chair over backwards and rose to his feet. " _Serpensortia_!" he yelled.

A green-and-brown-scaled snake appeared with a loud _bang_ on Kingsley's office-floor. It began to slither across the smooth tiles towards Tom, and instinctively, the boy yelled in a familiar hissing, spitting dialect. _Parseltongue_. Hermione leaned forward, eyes wide; Malfoy grinned. With a swipe of his wand, the snake vanished. "See, he's a Parseltongue, just like his old man! You can't just let him walk away, Minister, it's our duty to-"

"He won't walk away," Harry said suddenly. "Draco, please take Tom to my office."

"I – but…" Malfoy seemed to sense that the conversation would go no further while he was present. Grumbling furiously to himself, he escorted Tom from the room. "This isn't the end of this," he called as he strode out, cloak billowing impressively behind him. "The Dark Lord is back. I won't let you get soppy on this one, Potter. You know what needs to be done."

With a huffy sweep of his cloak, he left. When the door swung shut, Harry turned back to face Hermione and Kingsley. Hermione, in particular, looked baffled. "Harry, you can't mean to let Malfoy murder Tom-"

"No, Hermione, I don't," Harry said. Suddenly, he felt very tired. "We'll send him to Hogwarts."

"What?" she asked, disbelieving. "Harry - he'll be hated! Parents won't want their children going to school with him!"

"Maybe we should have thought of that before we put him in front of the Wizengamot," Harry retorted, more harshly than he intended. He took a moment to calm down, to assuage his gently-throbbing scar. "Sorry, Hermione. Long day. This - Hogwarts - I mean, don't you think it's what Dumbledore would have done?"

"Well, I like it," interjected Kingsley. "A fresh start for the boy. A happy upbringing at Hogwarts will prevent any potential... _darkness_ from ever arising. It's a good idea. Indeed, no one could deny Voldemort's brains. If this boy is as bright, he may have a great future ahead of him."

"Maybe," said Hermione, unconvinced. "We still don't know what he is, though. There's so many questions... and what will the parents think?"

"Lily's starting at Hogwarts next year," Harry reminded her quietly. "Hugo too. I think that'll be enough to shut up any complaints."

"That's decided then," said Kingsley firmly, while Hermione still chewed her lip doubtfully. "He goes to Hogwarts. But until then..."

"An orphanage?" Hermione suggested. "A nice one," she quickly amended, seeing the scowl on Harry's face. "Nothing like the one Tom Riddle - the _real_ Tom Riddle - was in. A wizarding orphanage. Somewhere he can have a happy childhood."

Something about the suggestion of an orphanage turned Harry's stomach. "I'd rather we found someone to take him in-"

"Harry," Hermione interrupted softly. "No one will take him in."

"OK," Harry reluctantly relented. "A nice orphanage."

"Very well, then," said Kingsley, rising to his feet. "I'll leave you two to arrange the details. Now, I had better go meet the press before we have a panic on our hands."


	3. Panic

_Panic_

* * *

"Name?"

"Elizabeth Selwyn," she had said.

"What are your qualifications, Miss Selwyn?" he had asked - he being the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ , a plump, elderly man with a great grey moustache that twitched up and down as he spoke. Elizabeth had told him her qualifications; seven Outstanding's in her O.W.L.s, two Exceeds Expectations and one Acceptable; six N.E.W.T's; one year's apprenticeship at _Witch Weekly_.

"Tell me about yourself, Elizabeth," the editor had suggested ponderously. And so Elizabeth had told him. She was twenty-one, blonde-haired, fresh-faced and handsome. She was a Slytherin, though the Sorting Hat was _this_ close to putting her in Ravenclaw. Her parents had been murdered by Lord Voldemort when she was still a baby. Ever since she was three, when she had first began scribbling stray thoughts about the other children of the orphanage onto scrap pieces of parchment, she had known she wanted to be a journalist.

"Your parents were - er - killed, you say?" the editor inquired, moustache twitching slowly up and down, up and down. "Did you have no relatives to take you in?"

Elizabeth had simply smiled grimly. "All dead."

"Ah. You-Know-Who?"

"Voldemort killed them, yes."

"Terrible business." The editor had shuddered dramatically, then reached across the table with a stubby-fingered hand. "Well, I'm convinced you'll make an excellent addition to our current affairs team, Elizabeth. Welcome to the _Daily Prophet_."

That had been six months ago. Elizabeth had quickly found that the new recruits - that was to say, her - would spend more time tending to the senior journalists' every whim than writing stories of their own. When she _was_ called upon to pen a story, it was invariably of the 'cat stuck up a tree' variety. That was what had her here, on this drizzly, dull night, alone in the headquarters of the _Daily Prophet._ She glanced at a clock on the far wall; one in the morning. In a few hours, the office would come back to life, as tomorrow's issue went out and the next began to take form; for now, though, she was alone.

Alone - but why, then, could she hear footsteps? _Probably just a cleaner_ , she told herself, as the soft _scuff_ of boot-heels on carpet grew louder and louder, _or another rookie, here to report on the urgent goings-on of the world's imperilled cats._ Yes, that was it - but, still, Elizabeth found herself reaching for her wand. Silently, she set her quill down on a sheet of blank parchment, then crept to the office door. Thick, wooden, the door had a small window set in it at eye-level. Elizabeth peered through now - and her heart skipped a beat. There was a man approaching down the corridor.

White-blonde-haired, middle-aged, with a little wisp of a goatee, Elizabeth suddenly recognised him. She knew him by sight, if not personally; the Malfoys' connections to the _Prophet_ were legendary among the junior journalists. Trying her best to disguise her momentary fear, she pulled the door open.

"Mr. Malfoy," she called amicably, as if this were a chance meeting in the street and not a mysterious visit in the dead of night. "How - how can I help you?"

Draco Malfoy strode past her into the bright light of the office without pause. "Are you a journalist?" he asked, taking a seat in a cushy armchair by the wall.

"Yes. I'm Elizabeth Selwyn-"

"Well then, Elizabeth," he interrupted smoothly, beckoning her to sit beside him, "do I have a story for you."

* * *

Within twenty-four hours, the entire wizarding world seemed to know. On the morning of the twenty-first of July, Harry had found Tom, chained up in the depths of the tower that had so dominated his dreams lately. He had brought Tom back to the Ministry, smuggled in beneath Harry's Invisibility Cloak, and on the afternoon, Tom had gone before a hastily-assembled Wizengamot; a catastrophic farce. Afterwards, Harry, Hermione and Kingsley had decided that Tom should go to a wizarding orphanage until the Hogwarts term began. Hermione had suggested one she knew of that might serve, so as afternoon drifted into evening, Harry had taken Tom to a grim, foreboding building, hidden away in the drizzly back-streets of Hogsmeade.

When she saw Tom, the matron of the orphanage's face had whitened as if she had seen a ghost. At first, she had point-blank refused to take Tom in, but after much wheedling - and a promise to pay triple the usual fees - she had relented. As they parted, Tom had turned to Harry, scarlet eyes pleading. "I don't understand," he had whispered, as the scowling matron had looked on. "Why are people so scared of me? Why did that Malfoy man want to kill me?"

But the matron had been tapping her foot impatiently, and the day was growing long besides, so all Harry had said was "Next time I see you, Tom, I'll explain." The last he had seen of Tom, a kindly young nurse named Sarah had been leading him towards his room. As night fell, and Harry found himself suddenly very tired, he had returned home. Ginny had been waiting by the door. "I was at the courtroom," she had said urgently. "Harry - what _was_ that boy?"

Stifling a yawn, Harry had stepped past her into the darkened house. It had seemed awfully quiet. "Ginny, where's the kids?"

"At my parents," she had explained impatiently, striding after him. "I took them there before I headed to the Ministry. Harry-"

"Relax," he urged. "Tom's just a boy. Some sort of - well, for want of a better word, _creation_ of Voldemort's, we think." He met his wife's eyes. "He's not back, Ginny."

Ginny had breathed an audible sigh of relief then, and had gone to retrieve Lily, James and Albus from Molly and Arthur. That night, all was well.

On the morning of July the twenty-second, the story had hit the newspapers. ' _You-Know-Who Back?'_ the front pages of the _Daily Prophet_ had screamed. _Has He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned once more? Disturbing reports from the Ministry of Magic last night suggest that the infamous mass-murderer may have been reborn - as an eleven year-old boy. Yesterday, the boy, dubbed Tom Riddle - and said to be the spitting image of You-Know-Who - was found by Harry Potter in an old hideout of You-Know-Who's, and brought before a crisis meeting of the Wizengamot in chains. Inside, Draco Malfoy tells all in our exclusive interview._

Bloody Malfoy. Even three days later, Harry found himself clenching his fists in fury. Malfoy had wasted no time in putting his own spin on Tom, beating the Ministry to the punch by almost an entire day. By the time Harry, Kingsley and Hermione had made a statement, the wizarding world was already convinced that Lord Voldemort had returned. The articles painted Tom as a scarlet-eyed monster, a demon borne from the Dark Arts - Lord Voldemort reborn. This woman Elizabeth Selwyn, some young reporter at the _Prophet_ , was the driving force behind it all; and behind _her_ , Malfoy.

 _He's just a boy_! Harry wanted to yell. How could Malfoy be so pig-headed? How could the wizarding world fall for his lies? As Harry walked through the Atrium now, heading towards his office for another long, hectic day, the Ministry was quieter than he had ever seen it. Not quieter in the sense that few people were there; the workers were here, but they walked together in hushed, huddled groups, heads bowed together, frantically whispering, and Harry knew why. Tom. People were scared. It had taken all he and Hermione had to prevent the wizarding world from bubbling over into panicked chaos over the last two days.

Fists still clenched, Harry headed for Hermione's office.

* * *

"Freak!" yelled one girl.

"Weirdo!" cried another.

"Snake-face!"

"Murderer!"

"Hey, Voldy!" Aaron called cruelly. The boy was bigger, and older, with a brutish, squashed-in face and close-cropped black hair. Aaron was the terror of the orphanage, and lately, as they stood out in the rain in the orphanage's cramped, muddy backyard, hemmed in by thick stone walls and tall iron fencing - 'playtime', the matron called it - Aaron had taken to tormenting Tom. The other children had gleefully followed Aaron's example. From what Tom could gather, many had lost relatives in some sort of war. "You want your book back?"

Aaron held Tom's book above his head, agonisingly out of reach - which was Aaron's intention, of course. The book was a tattered old thing, falling apart at the seams, but Tom had found it in the orphanage's meagre library, and he and it had been virtually inseparable since. Now, as Aaron held it aloft, pages fluttered free from the bindings, snatched by the wind and scattered all over the yard. All around Tom and Aaron, the other children circled, laughing, pointing, kicking stones. Tom snatched at the book, but Aaron lifted it another teasing inch.

"Yes," Tom muttered weakly, his face flushing as red as his irises.

"What was that?" Aaron asked loudly. He tilted his ear down towards Tom in an exaggerated, would-be-comical gesture. Of course, the other children laughed loudly.

"Yes," Tom repeated, louder this time. He snatched again at his book but, just as quickly, Aaron had yanked it out of reach. The burly teenager laughed.

"Why d'you want it so bad, anyway?" he demanded, prodding a thick finger into Tom's chest. "What you been reading, Voldy?" Shoving Tom aside, Aaron tossed the book to the girl who had shouted 'freak' earlier. She had a pinched little rat's face, Tom thought, and ugly dirty-blonde pig-tails. Before he could dart towards the ugly girl, though, Aaron had grabbed a fistful of Tom's shirt. "Read it out for us, Sally," Aaron called.

Sally's face contorted in an evil grin, and she opened the book. "Hogwarts, a History," she read in a mocking, sing-song voice. Again, the children laughed, and pressed closer around Tom. "Over a thousand years ago, four great-"

"Isn't that cute?" Aaron interrupted, yanking the book back out of Sally's hands. He had little time for reading or books, did Aaron, even when it involved his favourite pastime of tormenting Tom. "Ickle Voldy thinks he's going to Hogwarts."

"I _am_ ," Tom muttered angrily.

"Maybe you are," Aaron admitted, with a glint of malice in his black, piggy eyes. "But not for long, freak. You don't think they'll send you straight back here when they realise what a snivelling evil weasel you are?"

Tom lunged for the book. Laughing, Aaron pushed him away, once again holding the book aloft above his head. "You want it, _my Lord_?" he hissed. "You better jump for it."

Tom's scarlet eyes glittered dangerously. "Just give it to me, Aaron, and-"

Without warning, Aaron punched Tom, catching him in the jaw with a massive, meaty right hook. With a cry of pain, Tom crumpled to the gloopy mud-gravel ground of the backyard. His head snapped backwards against a jutting, fist-sized stone, and a razor-sharp dagger of pain stabbed through Tom's skull. For a moment, hazy-black shadows danced before his eyes; one, tattered and slender, almost looked like the outline of a girl. Slowly, the children's' laughter ringing in his ears, his vision still dizzy and uncertain, Tom tried to rise to his feet.

Aaron just pushed him back down.

* * *

"This has to end, Hermione."

Striding in the open office door, Harry tossed the latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_ onto Hermione's desk. Hermione took a glance; another Elizabeth Selwyn story, the headline read _RIDDLE MYSTERY THICKENS: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH ORPHANAGE WORKER REVEALS THAT BOY HAS 'VIOLENT TENDENCIES'_. The banner-headline was paired with a blurry, grained black-and-white photo of Tom standing, unawares, in the orphanage's muddy backyard. In the photo, rain was falling, and Tom's tattered-black robes were soaked through, and stained with mud to the knees. Mercifully, the orphanage had given him a pair of shoes to wear.

Sighing, Hermione slid the newspaper back across the desk towards Harry. "Harry, this is nothing we haven't seen before. It's only been three days. There were stories like this yesterday, and the day before, and there will probably be stories like this tomorrow."

"And that makes it OK? Look inside," Harry urged, still hovering anxiously at the foot of Hermione's desk. Leaning forward, he turned the page. Page two was given over to an editorial - from a 'Pucey Prize Winning Journalist', no less - which described, in excruciating detail, the dangers of allowing Tom to live. "You see this? _You-Know-Two_ , they're calling him! See this line - 'if we do not take action now, if we do not choke the weed before it strangles us in our sleep, what will the future generations think of us?'"

"Harry-"

"Riddle is most certainly not the _boy_ the Ministry professes," Harry continued relentlessly, reading the article out loud while he strode agitatedly back and forth across Hermione's carpet. "Despite what the sickening, sycophantic halfwits at the Ministry - Harry Potter chief among them - may tell us, he is blatantly a creation of Dark magic. A creation of Darkest magic, from the Darkest wizard of all time - and the Ministry plans to educate him."

The article ended with a plea from the author to buy their latest book, 'The Dark Lord: The Comprehensive Account of He Who Must Not Be Named's Rise to Power.'

"What do you want me to say, Harry?" Hermione asked. "It's ridiculous, I know, but... what can we do?"

"Blanket coverage!" Harry ranted furiously, drawing Hermione's attention to the page three feature on 'The Secret Politics Behind Riddle's Release From Custody.' "It's all the way through. Even the bloody _sports_ pages are wondering which Quidditch team he supports!" Harry tossed the newspaper into Hermione's fireplace, where it instantly began to char and smoulder around the edges. "I hate that bloody newspaper."

Hermione smiled thinly. Leaning forward, she grabbed Harry's elbow and forced him into an armchair. "Harry, we knew this was going to happen," she said soothingly. "These are - well - _unique_ circumstances. Nothing like this has ever happened before. For most people, it'll take a while to adjust to the idea." She glanced at the now-burning newspaper. "People are - well, _scared_. They just want to know what's going on."

"But they _don't_ know what's going on!" Harry exclaimed, outraged. "Tom's just a harmless boy, but the way the press are painting him - they're making him out to be a monster! And the worst thing is, people are starting to believe it."

"I _know_ , Harry," Hermione replied quickly, "but there's nothing we can do. Cornelius Fudge thought interfering with the media was a good idea, and look where that got him. We just have to let this blow over. After the summer, Tom will go off to school, he'll make friends, the wizarding world will see that he's just a normal boy, and gradually, people will forget this ever happened."

"Will they?" Harry echoed doubtfully. "Hermione, they're all but calling for his head."

Hermione chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Well - maybe, if we let them do an interview with Tom-"

"No."

"Well, then," Hermione sighed, "we'll just have to wait it out. Tom's not taking it too badly, is he? How's he doing at the orphanage?"

"The matron says he's doing well," Harry said. "She says he's making friends."

"Good," Hermione said. "Do you think he understands what's going on? I mean, we never really explained it properly to him. About Voldemort."

"If he didn't," Harry muttered, "if he's picked up a newspaper in the last three days, he does now."

Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat for a moment. "Anyway," she said, "while we're on the subject of Tom. Any breakthroughs at your end on - well, on _what_ he is?"

"Nothing," Harry admitted. "I talked to Tom for a while before taking him to the orphanage, but it didn't help. He doesn't know anything." Sighing, Harry sunk into an armchair. "Voldemort died twenty years ago, and Tom doesn't look a day over eleven, and we have no idea why. The best answer we can think of is that the trance Voldemort placed him in slowed his ageing somehow. Maybe stopped it completely. As to _why_ , we can only guess. Maybe Voldemort had plans for Tom."

"Any _powers_?" Hermione asked curiously.

"No - well, sort of. He's a Parselmouth, we know that. So far, though, he's not shown anything else...extraordinary. He's magical, definitely, but other than the Voldemort thing, he seems to be a completely normal boy."

* * *

"Time to break that snooty nose of yours," Aaron sneered, staring down at Tom as he lay, dazed, in the muck. Small, malicious faces surrounded him on all sides, laughing and smirking and pointing. Aaron lifted a huge studded boot - and then there was a sudden rush of footsteps, and the matron was forcing her way through the snickering crowd of children.

"What on earth is going on here?" she exclaimed angrily, grabbing Aaron by the ear and jerking him towards her. "Fighting is _unacceptable_ , Aaron! You know that-"

As soon as she saw Tom, bruised and beaten, she fell silent. The matron was a tall woman, big-boned and thick-set, with sharp hands and a sharp tongue. When she was displeased with a child - and she was always displeased with Tom - she would stare down her nose at the child, stinging hands raised, ready to dole out a scolding. She did so now. "Oh - it's you," she murmured quietly, taking in the eleven year old boy's bruised face, his ripped clothes, his sodden, mud-streaked hair. For a long moment, it seemed as if the matron might smile. But - almost reluctantly, it seemed - her training took over.

"Go inside, Aaron," she snapped. "Go to your room."

Aaron flashed Tom a sly smirk, then skulked off. Tom's book was still clutched in his hand, the binding ripped, the pages scattered all over the yard. As Aaron sloped away, so did most of the other children, and for a moment, as Tom sat up on the rain-soaked ground, he found himself alone with the matron. She offered Tom a hand, and Tom tried to take it - but the matron quickly drew her hand away, and Tom fell backwards into the muck once more. Mud dripping into his eyes, hot anger flaring within him, he climbed to his feet.

Tom made to push past the matron towards the orphanage's back-doors, but she raised a hand to stop him. "Try not to cause trouble, Tom," she hissed quietly, nostrils flaring. "Stay away from the other children."

Tom stared up at her, teeth gritted, face flushed in fury. "Why are you doing this to me?"

" _Why_?" The matron's grip tightened on Tom's robes, and she pulled him close, her face white with cold hatred. "You dare ask _why,_ you little monster?" She reached out with a lazy finger and flicked Tom's mottled-purple bruises. "I lost my sister in the war, freak. And my brother's wife, and my sweet little nephew. He was only _six_ , and you _killed_ him, you monster."

"I didn't-"

The matron released her grip on Tom's robes. Unbalanced, he toppled backwards, and landed with a soft _splat_ on the muddy ground. "Get yourself cleaned up," she snapped, staring down at Tom with cold disdain. "You're disgusting."

With that, she swept away towards the orphanage doors, and Tom was alone in the rain.

* * *

"Dad?" Lily asked softly. Startled, Harry looked up from his desk, and the half-dozen crumpled, unfinished letters to the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ that were piled there. His study was darkened, he noticed with some surprise; when he had begun his first attempt to pen this letter, it had been late evening, and the summer sun had still hung in the sky. Now, moonlight streamed in through the open curtains, illuminating his eleven year-old daughter's pretty, heartbreakingly-innocent face as she slunk across the carpet towards him. Lily was chewing her lip tentatively, the way she did when she was worried about something. "Is it true that Lord Voldemort is back?"

The fear in Lily's voice was like an icy shard through Harry's chest. "No, of course not, sweetie," he said quickly, hurrying around his desk to embrace his daughter. "Who told you that?"

"But - these stories - Dad, people are saying that you found Voldemort in a cave, and that you-"

"Don't listen to silly stories, Lily," Harry said kindly. Taking her by hand, he led her to the light-switch and flicked the overhead lights on. For the first time, Harry noticed that his daughter's eyes were wide with fear. "Tom - the boy I found - isn't Voldemort. He's just a boy."

"He's not back?"

"No, Lily. We're all a bit confused about Tom, but he's certainly not Voldemort. He's a nice boy. You'd like him." Lily blanched at that, and Harry squeezed her hand reassuringly. "There's nothing to be worried about, 'Lil. Don't get yourself worked up about stupid stories, OK?"

Weakly, she nodded, and allowed Harry to escort her back to her bedroom. "Goodnight," said Harry, flicking off the light.


	4. Diagon Alley

_Diagon Alley_

* * *

Where was he?

"Meet me in the Leaky Cauldron," Potter had told Tom at the end of his last visit. "We'll get your Hogwarts stuff. It's nearly time, now."

So Tom had come - though not without difficulties. He had overheard children at the orphanage talking about the Knight Bus, so Tom had figured that he would take that down to London. The matron had refused to pay his fare, though, so Tom had had to scrape together a few begrudged coins from the orphanage's few other nurses and carers. Pockets jingling for the first time in his life, Tom had taken the long, winding path out of Hogsmeade to signal the Knight Bus. It had been the longer way by far, but it saved him having to face the people of Hogsmeade's stares.

"You just raise your right arm," the girl had said, "and it pops right up out of thin air." Once out of Hogsmeade, Tom did so and, clanking violently, brakes screaming, the lurid-purple bus had burst from nowhere and screeched to a halt. When Tom tried to step onboard, however, the conductor had raised an arm to block his path.

"Get lost," the man, an unpleasantly-pimpled youth, had said. "We don't want you in 'ere."

Dejected, Tom had made the long trudge through the drizzle back to the orphanage. Sarah, the kindest of the orphanage's nurses, had suggested he travel south via Floo Powder. Tom had not known what that was, but Sarah had explained it to him, and after much pleading, the matron had finally consented to allow Tom to use her fire. "Anything to get you out of my sight," she had said.

"London," Tom had called uncertainly as the flames turned emerald-green. The matron, evil cow that she was, had not thought to correct Tom's lack of specificity, and so Tom had found himself in a dusty, industrial corner of the capital that was utterly unfamiliar to him. He had approached the first Muggle he saw, a young blonde-haired woman, to ask directions, but upon seeing his scarlet eyes she screamed and fled. Hastily accessorised in a pair of sunglasses that hid his scarlet irises from the Muggles - though wearing them when the sky was a bleak stormy-grey made Tom feel utterly ridiculous - he had trudged aimlessly through the sodden streets of London until, by sheer luck, he had stumbled upon the Leaky Cauldron.

A dank, dark pub, the Leaky Cauldron was a peculiar place, filled with strange men and stranger creatures. When Tom had first stepped through the heavy wooden doors, his drenched, over-long mop of black hair clinging to his face and neck, his sunglasses thankfully removed, the place had fallen silent. Tom was fast growing used to that. Without a word, he had hastened to a quiet, chilly corner of the bar, far away from the greedy, shameless stares. There he had sat, for over an hour now, waiting for Potter.

A shadow loomed over Tom's table, and he looked up - but it wasn't Potter. It was the man he'd seen tending the bar earlier; tall, middle-aged, with neatly-trimmed dark-blonde hair, he had an apron tied around his waist. "You must be Tom," the man said, offering Tom a hand across the table. Hesitantly, Tom shook it. "I'm a teacher at Hogwarts. Professor Longbottom."

Tom eyed the bartender suspiciously. "You don't look like a Professor."

Longbottom smiled ruefully. "Yeah, I probably don't," he admitted, rubbing his hands off on his apron. "In the summer, I help my wife run this place. But I _am_ a teacher."

"What do you teach?"

"Herbology," Longbottom said.

"Herbology. Is that the stuff to do with plants? I read about that, but it sounds a bit boring."

"Try telling me that when you've got a Venomous Tentacula chewing on your face," Longbottom said. "You want a drink, Tom?"

Tom was parched. Delving into the depths of his tattered pockets, he pulled out his meagre smattering of bronze coins and placed them neatly on the table. "What can I get for this?"

Longbottom blinked, uncertain. "Er - nothing. These are Knuts, Tom. A Butterbeer costs three Sickles. It's twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, and seventeen Sickles to a Galleon."

"That's stupid," said Tom darkly. So the nurses at the orphanage had sent him off to try to buy passage across the country with six Knuts, had they? Even if Tom had been allowed on the Knight Bus, he'd never have had enough money to buy a ticket. He bet the nurses had killed themselves laughing as he had sloped back to the orphanage, soaked and shivering.

Longbottom seemed to misinterpret Tom's sour look. "It's not a perfect system, Tom, but-"

Suddenly, a tall, bearded man shouldered Longbottom aside. He was colossally drunk, and he stabbed a thick finger at Tom now, as he began to shout and scream. He yelled madness about murders, and fallen friends, and a family lost. Tom could only sit there, stunned silent, and shrink further and further back into his little darkened corner. Regaining his feet, Longbottom grabbed the drunkard by the scruff of the neck and dragged him, still yelling, towards the door. He threw the bearded man out of the bar, tumbling head-over-heels through the open doorway of the Leaky Cauldron into the rain.

"Sorry about that," said Longbottom quickly to Tom, before striding off towards the bar, and the queue of impatient customers that had grown there over the last few minutes. "You OK?"

Shakily, Tom nodded.

* * *

"We'll get your Hogwarts stuff," Potter had said. It was about time, Tom thought; the first of September was fast approaching, and Tom had nothing. No schoolbooks, no cauldron, no Hogwarts robes - and no money to buy them with. He didn't even have a wand. Privately, it was that last omission which worried Tom most. He _wanted_ a wand, as soon as possible. Let Aaron and the others try to bully him when Tom could turn them all into frogs with a thought. Let the matron try to slap him around. Let Aaron try to whisper his whispers. _I bet you're a Squib_ , the older boy would hiss in Tom's ear. _You're a freak. That's what Squibs are - freaks._

Having a wand - and being able to use it - would finally soothe those nagging fears for Tom; fears that he was, as Aaron so often told him, a Squib, a freak, a monster. Gradually, ever since the burly teen had mentioned it, the fear had taken hold of Tom, squeezing at his insides with long icy fingers, keeping him up well into the night. What if he _was_ a Squib? What would he do? Tom knew enough about the Muggle world to know he would never be accepted there. No, he would be a freak in both worlds.

Time passed, and Tom's stomach churned nervously, and still the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron stared, and muttered, and pointed. Tom could do nothing but slink further and further still into the corner. It felt like forever before Potter arrived, but finally the thin black-haired man stepped through the open doorway, swaddled in a thick black travelling cloak. Potter had two children in tow, Tom noticed; a pretty girl with flame-red hair, about Tom's age, and skulking beside Potter, an older boy, his expression disinterested and bored. He was the spitting image of his father.

Potter, still standing in the doorway, scanned the interior of the Leaky Cauldron; after a few moments, his stark-green eyes picked Tom out through the gloom, and he gave a friendly wave. Tom returned it shyly, and Potter strode forwards towards the bar. As Longbottom gave Potter a welcoming smile, and the two men began to talk, Potter's two children crossed the floor towards Tom. The boy, dark-haired and handsome, led the way, striding confidently as he picked a path through the cramped, pushed-together tables towards Tom. The younger girl trailed timidly behind.

"James," Potter's son announced, sliding into a seat opposite Tom. He stared at Tom curiously, hungrily; there was a mocking glint there that immediately put Tom on edge. Tom glared back at the boy, and said nothing. A moment passed - and then James' mouth twitched upwards in a small, mocking half-smile, and he offered a hand to Tom across the table. "How's it going, Slits?"

Tom didn't take the offered hand. "Slits?" he repeated blankly.

James grinned. "You know, 'cause of the eye thing," he said casually. "Hey-" he leaned forward- "Is it true you can shoot lasers from your eyes?"

" _James_!" exclaimed a small, outraged voice. Peering past James' playful grin, Tom saw Potter's daughter, lurking uncertainly behind her older brother. She stepped forward now, pale cheeks flushed. "Don't be rude!"

"I'm not being rude," James scoffed. "Just getting to know our glow-in-the-dark friend, is all. Sit down, 'Lil."

"I'm telling Dad," she said huffily. Turning on the spot, she strode off towards her father, still chatting to Longbottom at the bar. Tom was watching her go when James clicked his fingers loudly before Tom's eyes.

"You in there, Slits?" he asked. Reluctantly, Tom's eyes slid back towards the older boy. "I'm talking to you. So, what was it like living in that cave for years? Did you eat snakes? Did you talk to snakes?"

"I-"

" _Can_ you talk to snakes?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Tom said angrily. "Leave me alone."

James' mouth twisted in that little mocking smile he wore so often, but he said nothing. They sat in silence until Potter returned from the bar, four Butterbeers in hand.

"Hello, Tom," he said amicably, taking a seat beside his son. Shyly, Potter's daughter stepped past her father, and Tom slid up on the bench he sat on to make room for her. "How are you?"

"Good," Tom lied.

"Good," echoed Potter, sliding a Butterbeer Tom's way. "Tom, this is my son, James."

"Yeah, he told me," Tom muttered, taking a deep sip of the Butterbeer. It was good.

"And this is Lily," Potter continued, nodding across the table towards his daughter.

"Hi," she said politely, extending a small warm hand towards Tom.

"Pleased to meet you," Tom muttered, shaking her hand uncertainly.

"Lily's starting at Hogwarts this year too, Tom," Potter said.

"Really?" began Tom, half-turning towards the eleven year-old girl, a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue - but then that mocking glint returned to James' eyes, and Tom shrank a little further back into the corner. His scarlet eyes slid to Potter. "When will we go into Diagon Alley, Mr. Potter?"

"Oh, we can have some lunch first, can't we?" said Potter. Half-turning, he waved to Longbottom, and the other man left the bar to head this way. "Afterwards, we'll go into the Alley. I figured while you and I were here, Tom, I could get James, Albus and Lily their things too. We'll get you a wand - oh, and Lily, too," Potter added, smiling at his young daughter. "After that we'll get you some robes, all your books, everything you need, then I'll drop you off back at the orphanage. Sound good?"

"Great," Tom replied honestly, excitement rising within him. He was getting a wand!

"Good," said Potter, smiling warmly as Longbottom approached the table. "OK then, what are we having?"

* * *

"Here we are, Tom," Potter had said, stepping away from the rapidly-disappearing brick wall. Beyond it, Tom could see an eclectic hodge-podge of shops, all strewn along a narrow cobbled street. Potter had watched Tom closely, as if waiting for his reaction; when Tom had merely blinked and stepped forward into Diagon Alley, Potter's face had fallen.

"I was hoping for more of a reaction," Potter admitted as they walked. James and Lily had fallen behind, faces pressed in wonder against the glass windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies as they goggled at the newest Nimbus broomstick. Even here, walking by Harry Potter's side, Tom still drew unabashed stares from everyone he passed. "Most people's jaws hit the floor when they see it for the first time."

"I've seen it before," Tom replied quietly. "I dreamt of it. I - I remember."

Potter frowned, suddenly disquieted. "Like when you suddenly knew my name at the Ministry? How does that work?"

Tom could only shrug. "I don't get it either."

"Well, what else do you - er - remember?" Potter asked, with a brief glance over his shoulder towards his children. Lily was now cooing at the sight of a fluffy-orange cat caged outside Magical Menagerie while an exasperated James tried to tug her along.

"Not much." _A flash of green light. A manor on a hill. A graveyard. A shop named Borgin & Burkes._

With that, Potter let the matter slide. Stopping in his tracks, he turned to his children. "Hurry up, you two," he called. "We're here."

For the first time, Tom noticed the narrow, shabby shop they stood before. Dingy inside, its only window-display was a dusty wand, placed delicately on a purple cushion. Peeling gold letters above the doorway read _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._

"What does B.C. mean?" Tom asked curiously.

As Lily and James returned to their father, Potter turned back towards Tom. "Before Christ," he said, surprised.

"Who's Christ?"

James sniggered loudly at that, though Potter pretended not to notice. "Ollivanders," he announced to Tom and Lily. "I got my wand from Ollivanders, and my parents too."

Tom didn't reply. His insides were suddenly churning so violently that he felt, if he were to attempt to speak, he would surely be sick on the cobbles. Beside him, Lily looked as if she felt the same way.

"Well, in you go," Potter prompted.

Rather timidly, Tom turned the handle and slipped inside the darkened, musty shop, closely followed by Lily, Potter and James. Inside, the cramped room was empty but for the ceiling-high shelves that lined every wall, and a dusty wooden desk that faced the door. Behind the desk stood a man, perhaps fifty, with wispy-grey hair and pale-silver eyes. When he saw Tom and Lily, his eyes lit up.

"Ah..." he murmured croakily, his eyes flitting from Tom, to Potter's scar, and then back again. "Most curious..."

Potter smiled thinly. "Hello, Mr. Ollivander," he said. "I was sorry to hear about your father."

The grey-haired man - Ollivander, Tom supposed - waved a veiny, spotted hand dismissively. "It was a miracle he lived so long. Given what he went through in the war..." Ollivander glanced again at Tom before he continued. "What will it be, Mr. Potter?"

"Two for their first wands, please."

Ollivander nodded slowly, his strangely-unsettling eyes still fixed on Tom. After a moment, he stepped from behind his desk and trotted towards Tom.

"Good luck," Lily whispered as, with a prod in the back from Potter, Tom stepped forward. He stared uncertainly at Ollivander as the old man pulled out a battered old tape-measure. He draped it over Tom's shoulders; the tape-measure immediately began to snake its way around Tom's ankles, legs, wrists, head, and all the while Ollivander stared curiously at Tom, his head tilted slightly to the side, like an inquisitive cat.

"Most curious," he repeated to himself as the tape-measure returned to his hand. "A perfect likeness..."

From his sleeve, he withdrew a long wooden wand, which he handed to Tom with an air of anticipation. Tom had a feeling Ollivander had been looking forward to this moment. However, the old man was to be disappointed; when Tom clutched the thin stick of wood, nothing happened. He wasn't sure, but Tom thought it felt...wrong in his hand. Ollivander must have felt the same way; he swiftly whipped the wand out of Tom's grasp, then turned away, moving with slow, tottering steps towards his shelves.

"No, not the same, not the same," Ollivander muttered, stretching for a black wand-case seemingly at random. "Perhaps..."

Abruptly, he turned back to Tom.

"Try this, boy," he said, a strange intensity to his voice as he handed a slim stick of pale-wood to Tom. "Eleven inches, yew, pliant."

As soon as Tom took the wand in his right hand, he knew that this was the one. A rush of electricity jolted through him, and a stream of green sparks erupted from the end of the wand, burning a hole in Ollivander's carpet. "A fine wand," Ollivander said, smiling. "Yes, I'm sure great things lie ahead for you, Tom."

Afterwards, as they stepped back onto the cobbles of Diagon Alley, the rain had stopped, and the sun had come out from behind the clouds. Even better, James spotted some school-friends of his and hurried off to join them. "See you later, Dad," he had called over his shoulder as they parted. "Buy 'Lil something from me. _Don't_ let Slits get a snake."

As Tom watched the older boy go, his fingers had tightened around his wand, and his scarlet eyes had gleamed angrily. Far more interested in Lily's school-list, Potter didn't notice, but the red-haired girl leaned over to whisper in Tom's ear. "That was mean of James," she said, as Potter set off down the alley, Tom and Lily in tow. "He shouldn't call you - _that_."

"Yeah, well..." Tom paused, trying to force some of the bitterness out of his voice. "I'd better get used to it, hadn't I?" He glanced around towards the passing crowd; their eyes followed his every movement, and as he walked the shoppers made sure to give him a wide berth. Tom half-wished he still wore his sunglasses. "I mean, it's not exactly going to stop, is it?" he added quietly.

Lily followed his gaze. "You don't like the staring?"

"No, it's super-fun," Tom retorted sarcastically. "I love being looked at like some freak-show murderer-"

"Who's a freak-show murderer?" Potter interrupted suddenly.

"No one," Tom said quickly, as Lily burst into a fit of giggles. "Just something I read in the newspaper."

"Er - OK," said Potter, retrieving Lily's Hogwarts list from his back pocket. "So, robes, cauldrons, protective gloves, a telescope... why don't you two have a look around while I get all this stuff?"

"Sure," said Tom and Lily.

"Don't get lost," Potter warned.

"We won't," they promised, and then Potter was gone, and Tom and Lily stood alone in the centre of Diagon Alley.

"Er - so - what should we do?" Tom asked. "I've never been here before."

"How about Flourish & Blotts?" suggested Lily. "It's a bookshop."

Tom liked that suggestion, and so they went. "How's your wand?" Lily asked as they walked.

Tom slid his wand from beneath his robes and gave it a few swishes back-and-forth. "It's amazing," he said, as a shower of red sparks leapt from the end of his wand.

"I know what you mean," Lily agreed. "I'd held my parents' wands, and my brother's, but when it's _yours..._ hey, do you know any spells?"

Tom opened his mouth to say no - but then, suddenly, there they were in his mind. _Alohomora,_ a spell for opening locked doors. A charm for levitating objects. The Body-Bind curse. Instantly, he forgot all of his fears of being a Squib. He was born for magic, he knew that now. "Yes," he found himself saying. "Loads."

Lily's eyes had widened, impressed. They had talked about wands and spells and magic and Hogwarts for a long time, but eventually they had grown bored. It was then had they had headed for Flourish & Blotts, the bookshop. On the way, they stopped at a little street-side stall, and Lily bought herself and Tom a Chocolate Frog each. She had showed him the little cards that were hidden inside. "Dad _again_!" Lily groaned, showing her card to Tom. On it was a rather-sheepish looking Potter, who kept trying to sidle off to the side of the portrait and out of sight.

"I got Ptolemy," Tom said. Lily didn't have Ptolemy, it turned out, so Tom gave her his card. Afterwards, they had gone into Magical Menagerie. Potter had given Lily money to buy herself a pet, and the red-haired girl spent much time _umming_ and _aahing_ and deliberating before she made her choice. "Isn't she _cute_?" she finally exclaimed, holding aloft an exceptionally-furry ginger cat.

"Very," said Tom. Quickly, he glanced left and right, but there were no other shoppers nearby, and the Magical Menagerie's proprietor's nose was buried in the latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_. Reading dirt on Tom, no doubt. "Want to see something cool?"

Lily nodded. Grinning, Tom turned to the nearest glass cage. Inside, coiled among a cluster of plastic faux-rocks and leafy fronds, its slitted, half-open eyes watching Tom lazily, the adder was a dull green-black. " _Hello_ ," he hissed, and Lily's bright-brown eyes widened. In response, the snake's two-forked tongue flicked out, as if tasting the air, and ever so slowly its head turned towards Tom.

"You speak Parseltongue?" asked Lily in an awed whisper.

Tom shrugged. "Is that what they call it? See, I don't know this stuff." He glanced at the snake, now uncoiling itself and slowly slithering towards the glass. " _How are you_?"

The adder's only response was a long, lazy _hiss._ "What did it say?" Lily asked, wide-eyed.

Tom adopted a grave, overdramatic expression. "It said," he said, " _that cat looks tasty."_

Lily hugged the ginger-furred cat to her chest in a protective gesture. Grinning, Tom was about to admit the truth when someone suddenly grabbed his shoulder with a strong hand. "You," someone snapped, "Riddle. Get away from that snake. Get out. We don't want you in here."

Turning, he saw the pet-shop's proprietor, a scowl on the middle-aged woman's usually-kindly face. "You can't make him get out!" Lily exclaimed, outraged. "He's a customer!"

" _He's_ driving away my customers," the proprietor retorted. "People are scared of him. Can't say I much like the sight of him myself. Gives me the creeps. Now, you've paid for that cat, young lady, so off you go."

"C'mon, Tom," Lily said huffily, taking Tom by arm and marching him from the pet-shop. "It's a rubbish shop anyway!" she called over her shoulder as they stepped back into the sunlight.

* * *

Tom heard Aaron's thumping footsteps long before the teenage boy arrived at his door. When his door smashed open, revealing the massive, leering bulk of Aaron, Tom simply snapped his spellbook shut, sliding it surreptitiously beneath his sheets. With his right hand, hidden behind his back, he reached for the comforting warmth of his wand.

"Heard you've been to Diagon Alley," Aaron had sneered. "Maybes I'll-"

" _PETRIFICUS TOTALUS_!" Tom yelled.

Aaron hit the floor with a thud. Calmly, Tom rose to his feet and walked over to the older boy. Aaron's unblinking eyes, suddenly wide with fear, stared up at Tom.

"Time to break that ugly nose of yours," Tom murmured, raising his foot.

Aaron never gave him trouble again after that.


	5. Final Reservations

_Final Reservations_

* * *

Hogwarts was just as Harry remembered it. The grounds sparkled in the crisp Autumn sunlight; in the distance, smoke wafted gently upwards from the chimney of Hagrid's little stone hut, and inside the great stone walls of the castle, the corridors were lined with the same strange portraits and gleaming silver suits of armour. In the Great Hall, flags fluttered softly on the walls, Gryffindor and Slytherin and Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, and the grand marble staircases still moved at the most inopportune moments. The Headmaster's office, however, was a different matter.

Gone were the strange tinkling, puffing machines that had littered every spare surface when Dumbledore had held the office. Gone too was Fawkes' great golden bird-cage, and the wide-brimmed silver Pensieve was nowhere to be seen. Even in the late-summer heat, a fire was crackling, and knitted-tartan rugs had been thrown over every exposed armchair and stool in sight. In the Headmaster's golden chair - or Headmistress', in this case - sat Minerva McGonagall. Above her, Dumbledore was snoozing softly in his portrait.

Harry sat opposite his old Transfiguration teacher, stifling-hot beneath the tartan-shawl she had insisted he take as a gift. "I thought you had planned to retire this year, Professor," he said. "When I came here, I was expecting to find Professor Flitwick, or Professor Vector, or maybe even Neville."

McGonagall's mouth tightened into a thin cold line. "With...recent developments, Harry, I felt it best if I put off my retirement by a few years."

"Oh," said Harry uncertainly. "Tom."

"The Riddle boy, yes. A delicate situation, from what I have heard."

Harry snorted, with just a hint of bitterness. "Yeah. Well, it's actually about Tom that I'm here. Just to - er - finalise things."

"Such as..."

"Well - I just wanted to make sure you look after him." Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "He's very bright, and a natural wizard. He should do well here. As long as..."

Slowly, McGonagall nodded. She seemed to understand. "Very well, Harry. I'll keep an eye on him. Both for signs that he's unhappy, and signs of...darkness."

"Thank you, Professor." Harry rose to leave. It was the day before the Hogwarts Express left, and he had a thousand and one things to do. The trials and tribulations of trying to get three children ready to go to Hogwarts - not to mention looking after Tom...

"Harry?" Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Professor McGonagall still seated at her desk, her fingers steepled atop the grand oak table. "One more thing concerning the Riddle boy."

Uncertainly, Harry sat back down.

* * *

It had been a short, unhappy stay at the orphanage for Tom. Half the children despised him, and the rest were too scared stiff of the black-haired boy to even go near him. The nurses would barely even talk to him, so most of the time Tom stayed shut up in his room; sometimes reading, sometimes just watching the world go by from the window by his bed. It was a confusing world out there. No one had explained any of it to Tom; not what those big white machines in the sky were, or why the Muggle buildings in London climbed so high, or why everyone's eyes were constantly glued to these little metal boxes, or...he could go on and on.

All of it baffled Tom. He remembered _some_ things, in that same strange way that he had remembered Potter's name at his trial; he remembered Diagon Alley, and Borgin & Burke's, and sailing across a churning black lake towards a grand castle, but this - he understood none of it. Most of all, he didn't understand why the entire wizarding world seemed to want him dead. Oh, he'd heard snippets, picked up little tidbits of information here and there; a man everybody called You-Know-Who, or Voldemort, had killed a lot of people a long time ago, Tom knew, though he didn't know why - or what that had to do with him.

So the summer had passed, and now Tom sat alone in his room once more, and there was only one day left. Tomorrow, he'd pack up his things - the clothes on his back, plus his Hogwarts stuff - and Potter would take him to Kings Cross station - after he'd put his sunglasses on, of course. The rest of the school-aged orphanage children would travel in a battered old bus down to London, but the matron had already made it clear that Tom was not welcome on _that_ trip - not that Tom was bothered. He could barely wait. Each minute took him further from the orphanage and closer to Hogwarts. Maybe things would be better there, Tom dared to think. Lily would be there, Potter had said so. But, on the other hand, so would that James boy...

But before any of that, it was time for breakfast. Tom headed for his usual spot at the back of the mess-hall, far away from the other children, his plate piled high with salty scrambled eggs and bacon. His route took him past Aaron and his cronies. The bulky, brutish-faced teen, face still bandaged, glanced over his shoulder as Tom passed, but merely grunted and turned away. Rat-faced Sally, however, leapt to her feet. She was fifteen, and a foot taller than Tom, and she stabbed a finger aggressively at his chest now.

"You gonna do me like you did Aaron?" she demanded. "You gonna try?"

Tom's right hand twitched away from his breakfast tray towards his pocket - and Sally flinched. He almost smiled. "You're scared of me."

Sally crossed her arms across her chest, suddenly uncertain. "Everyone knows what you did," she said. "How many people you killed."

 _That wasn't me_ , Tom might have said. _I've never killed anyone. I wouldn't._ But he hated Sally, so all he did was smirk slyly and push past her. "I'll see you at Hogwarts," he said.

On the way back to his room, Tom suddenly found himself face to face with the matron. Her arms were stacked high with sheets of official-looking parchments, and she didn't see Tom until he was right before her. "Get out of the way," she snapped, staggering under the weight of the parchments she held.

With lightning speed, Tom slashed his wand upwards, and the pile of parchments exploded upwards into the air.

"You little _freak_!" the matron hissed, reaching out with stinging hands to cuff Tom's ear. "You pick those up now-"

"If you ever call me a freak again, I'll kill you."

Tom said it with such ferocity that the matron seemed to quite believe him.

* * *

The Burrow was as busy as Harry had ever seen it. Little red-haired children were everywhere; and some not-so-little ones, too. Bill and Fleur were here with their children, as were George and Angelina, Percy and Audrey, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Harry himself. Molly and Arthur were here too, of course, though Charlie couldn't make it. Tomorrow, the Hogwarts Express was leaving for another year, and the Weasleys had gathered to mark the occasion in style. Harry didn't join in the merriment. He sat by the fire, lost in his thoughts, while they sang and danced and laughed.

"Harry?" someone suddenly asked. Harry looked up from the flames to see Ginny and Ron standing over him. Ron had a half-ripped red party hat dangling from his left ear. "You alive in there?"

"Huh? Oh - er - yeah." Shaking his head in a feeble attempt to clear his thoughts, Harry eased upright in his chair. "What is it?"

Ginny and Ron shared an uncertain look. "What's on your mind, mate?" Ron asked. "You've barely said a word all day."

"It's nothing," Harry lied. "Oh look, Molly's making punch-"

"Harry," Ginny interrupted pointedly. "Talk to us."

"I - I..." Harry soon wilted beneath the ferocious Weasley stares. "I'm not sure I've done the right thing," he admitted quietly. "About Tom, I mean."

Ginny raised an amused eyebrow. "Your children are going to Hogwarts tomorrow, and all you can think about is some boy you barely know." She rolled her eyes. "That is so Harry Potter."

"No, it's just..."Harry struggled, for a second, to explain the swirling turmoil of thoughts within him, and Ginny took a seat by his side. "It's just that I'm responsible for him, and - and if anything goes wrong - if _he_ goes wrong-"

"He _won't_ ," Ginny urged, squeezing Harry's hand reassuringly. "From what you and Lily have said, he sounds like a nice boy. A _normal_ boy, no matter what my idiot co-workers at the _Prophet_ say. He'll be fine, right, Ron?"

But Ron, sitting in an armchair to Harry's right, did not answer immediately. His mouth opened, but whatever he planned to say, he seemed to think better of it. "Ron?" Ginny prompted after a moment's silence.

Sheepishly, uneasily, Ron spoke. "Look, I'm still a bit weirded out by the whole thing," Ron admitted. "I mean, Riddle's this weird magic - clone - _thing_ \- and _none_ of us know what he can do, or what he is, or what he wants - and he's going to go to school with our kids! I'm not sure it's a good idea," he finished tamely.

Ron looked sorry he had said anything at all, but the truth was that everything he had said had ran through Harry's mind at some point over the last few days. "Ron, he's just a kid-" Ginny began.

"No, Ginny, he's not!" Ron interrupted hotly. Now that he had finally voiced his fears, Ron seemed determined to get them all off his chest at once. "You don't know _what_ he is! We don't know if he's You-Know-Who's son, or some sort of accident, or some magical bloody timebomb!" As Harry stared into the depths of the fireplace, Ron turned to him. "Harry, you have no idea what is going to happen with him. What if, one day, some - some trigger just goes off in his head, and he starts killing everyone in sight?"

Harry had no answer. Everything Ron said had occurred to him; everything Ron said had been troubling him deeply all night. What _if_ Tom became Voldemort? And Harry had put his daughter - and his sons, and his nieces and nephews, and countless others - in the firing line. What if-

"Tom Riddle?" James exclaimed derisively. Suddenly, Harry noticed that the party had fallen silent, and all eyes were on him, Ron and Ginny. Closest were James, Lily, Hugo and Rose. "That weirdo's not actually coming to Hogwarts, is he? I thought that was a joke."

Hugo sniggered, and Rose glanced uncertainly at her parents, but Lily bristled. "He's not a weirdo," Harry's eleven year-old daughter snapped. "You should stop being so mean to him, James."

James snorted. "That's likely."

"Is he your boyfriend, Lily?" Hugo mocked. "Was it his eyes you fell for? His big red snakey-"

"Shut up!" Lily yelled, flushing furiously.

"That's enough, Lily," Harry said sharply. "You too, James."

James smirked. "You can't tell me off, I'm fifteen."

"Can't we?" Ginny snapped, stepping forward. "Both of you, grow up a bit and stop this bickering."

"You too, Hugo," interjected Ron. "Let's just - just not talk about - about him tonight, alright?"

Everyone knew who _he_ was. After a long, awkward silence, Molly Weasley stepped forward, plump and grey-haired and smiling. "Anyone want some punch?"

* * *

"Tom?" came the call, and a soft knock at his door. "You have a visitor."

Tom lay on his bed in the darkness. The only light in his bedroom came from a small jar of flickering, sapphire-blue flames he had conjured into life and placed on his windowsill. Outside, the sky was black, but in the distance Tom could just about make out the dark mass of Hogwarts, and the thousand tiny pinpricks of light that streamed from the great castle's windows. Tomorrow, he'd be going there. It might be better there. It might not.

Lazily, he turned his head towards the door. "Who is it?" he called. "Is it Potter?"

When the answer came back, he recognised Sarah's voice. She was one of the kinder nurses; she didn't hit Tom or scold him, and she stared at him with a little less revulsion than the others. "No, it's a woman called Miss Selwyn here to see you. She's a journalist."

"Tell her to go away."

For a few moments, all Tom heard was low muffled muttering - then his door creaked open an inch, and Sarah poked her head in through the door. "She's coming in," she announced. A moment later, the door swung inwards, and a young blonde-haired woman stood in the doorway. Elizabeth Selwyn wore form-fitting bottle-green robes and high-heeled black boots that laced upwards almost to her knees. Her face was pretty in an angelic, elfin sort of way, though her pale-green eyes had a certain cold steel to them.

"Tom," she said in an even voice. "I was hoping we could talk. I'm Elizabeth Selwyn."

Perched on the edge of his narrow bed, knees hugged to his chest, Tom glared at the blonde-haired woman. "I know who you are. I've seen what you've written about me."

"Oh." Selwyn eased Tom's door shut behind her. The last Tom saw of Sarah was the young nurse goggling inquisitively at the _Daily Prophet_ journalist's back. "Well, perhaps an interview will help me get to know you, Tom. People just want to know what you want."

"I want you to get out," said Tom heatedly. "I don't want to talk to you."

Selwyn sighed over-dramatically, then crossed the room to Tom's tiny desk. She swung the hard-backed wooden chair around, legs _scraping_ loudly on the stone floor, then took a seat facing Tom. "I just want to hear your take on things."

"You just want to twist my words," Tom said. This woman had been at the heart of every negative story about Tom over the last month, right from the start. It was she who'd told the world that Lord Voldemort was back; that Tom was violent, sullen and un-cooperative; that he'd purchased a wand composed of the same materials as Voldemort's, that he had terrorised a shop-owner in Diagon Alley, that he had beaten an innocent orphan boy so savagely that he had been in the hospital wing for two weeks. "I bet tomorrow you'll be writing about 'your night with the monster'. _Oh, it was terrible_ , you'll write. _He glared at me with those red eyes, those monstrous red eyes, and truly, I saw the shadow of Lord Voldemort there_."

Selwyn smiled thinly. "My prose is a little better than that, I hope. Won't you talk to me?"

"No." Tom rose to his feet, trying to make himself look fearful. It was difficult, as even standing he was shorter than the long-legged woman. "Now get out before I curse you."

"He's wrong about you," she muttered, more to herself than Tom. "I'd thought that maybe...but now I see you..."

"Who's he?" Tom asked blankly.

Selwyn didn't reply. Rising to her feet, she swept to the door and pulled it open. "Goodbye, Tom," she called as she left. "Enjoy your time at Hogwarts."

* * *

"I went to see him tonight," Elizabeth told him.

Draco Malfoy scowled. "Why?"

"I wanted to see what Riddle was like. See if he's the monster you say he is. The monster you pay _me_ to say he is."

"And?"

"He seems nice enough," Elizabeth said. "A little hot-headed, but I can understand why. I don't see what your problem with him is."

"My _problem_?" Malfoy exclaimed, eyes wide and zealous. When it came to Tom Riddle, the man was positively demented. Elizabeth didn't share the man's rabid fear of Tom Riddle, nor his total unwavering belief that the boy was of the same utter evil as Voldemort, but Malfoy paid well, so she held her tongue and wrote what he asked of her. Mostly. "He's the _Dark Lord_. He's evil. I won't let the Dark Lord return again. I won't. You know what that would be like?"

In her mind's eye, Elizabeth saw a skull-faced man. His eyes were the same gleaming-crimson as Tom Riddle's, his nose a snakelike slit in the centre of his face, and his hands were like large pale spiders. The man was laughing, a high cold laugh, as he stood over the bodies of her parents. The skull-faced man's eyes found Elizabeth's, and suddenly he wasn't a skull-faced man anymore, but an eleven year-old boy with cold red eyes. Grimly, she nodded.

"This is important work we're doing, Elizabeth," said Malfoy. "The wizarding world needs to know that this boy is dangerous."

"I'll keep writing your stories," she said. "Just as long as you keep paying."


	6. The Sorting

_The Sorting_

* * *

Harry hurried up the orphanage steps, head bowed against the icy-cold rain. Above him was Tom's orphanage; squat and unpleasant, it stood in stark contrast with the rest of Hogsmeade. Harry hadn't even known it had existed until a month or so ago. As he reached the top of the sodden steps, the orphanage's heavy wooden doors swung open, hinges squealing, ageing wood creaking violently. Harry dashed inside, emerging from the downpour into a cramped, austere reception area. To his left lay a row of hard-backed wooden seats; ahead of him, a long oak desk ran the length of the room, topped with a long sheet of plate glass.

Sitting at the desk was a curmudgeonly matron, her expression formidable; her nose was buried in the latest issue of _Witch Weekly._ She paid no attention to Harry as he burst, dripping wet, into the room. Stepping towards her - shaking away the drips of water trickling down the back of his neck, wiping clear his steamed-up glasses - Harry cleared his throat. Reluctantly, the matron's eyes flitted from her magazine to Harry.

"Yes?" she asked blandly.

"I'm here to pick up Tom Riddle," Harry said, stepping close to the desk and thrusting a few slightly-damp sheaves of official-looking Ministry paperwork towards her. The matron sighed, and reached for a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. Harry waited, fidgeting impatiently, for five minutes or so while the matron inspected his paperwork. She seemed almost to be looking for a fault, but eventually, she removed her spectacles, stuffed the pieces of parchment into a desk drawer (where Harry very much doubted they would ever be seen again) and lifted her icy-grey eyes to Harry's.

"Everything seems in order," she said dismissively. The matron glanced at a wire-mesh door, inset in the wall to her right. Lazily, she flicked her wand, and the door swung open. "He's through there, Mr. Potter. Ignore any tales he tells you. The boy is a born liar." Her nose crinkled in distaste. "It's in his blood."

Harry left the matron there. Once he stepped through the wire-mesh door, he found himself in a dusty-brown corridor that smelt faintly of mothballs. The third door on the left was Tom's. Harry knocked gently once, twice, then pushed the door open. Tom's room was tiny. Harry was sure he could have touched all four walls at once. The only light came from a small window, set high in the wall above a sagging, splintering camp bed. Opposite the bed were a wardrobe and desk, but the wardrobe's doors hung loosely open, and it was empty besides, and the desk was mildewed and rotten.

Tom lay on his bed, wand in hand. There was a fly on the opposite wall; with wordless, lazy flicks of his wand, Tom was causing the fly to engorge to freakish size, then shrink, then grow again, over and over again. "Hello, Tom," said Harry. "Ready to go?"

Slowly, Tom's eyes slid from the monstrously-large fly to Harry. Freed, the fly made a break for the half-open window and disappeared into the sky above Hogsmeade, buzzing loudly. As Tom's crimson eyes found Harry, he felt the familiar twinge of pain in his scar, but Harry let his face show no sign of it. Hesitantly, the boy smiled, and climbed to his feet. Tom's trunk was stowed beneath his bed; he crouched to pull it out, then turned to Harry, pulling a pair of Muggle sunglasses from his pocket. Harry blinked, bewildered, as Tom Riddle put them on.

"Sunglasses?" he asked, lips twitching upwards into a small smile.

Tom frowned uncertainly. "We're going into the Muggle world, aren't we?" the boy asked. "To Kings Cross station, to get on the Hogwarts Express?"

The words had a rhythmic, off-by-heart quality, as if Tom had been murmuring the words to himself over and over again. With a gut-wrenching pang of sympathy, Harry realised the black-haired boy might very well have been doing just that. "Er - about that," he began uneasily. "About the Hogwarts Express. Listen, Tom - this wasn't my idea - in fact, I was against it - but Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, they - er - felt it might be better for everyone if I - I took you straight to Hogwarts."

Tom's scarlet eyes widened in shock. "But - that's ridiculous!" he stammered. " _Everyone_ goes on the Hogwarts Express."

"I don't like it either," Harry said quietly. "But it's orders, so-"

"So ignore your orders!" Tom yelled suddenly. The black-haired boy's scarlet eyes flashed dangerously, and for the very first time Harry saw the shadow of Voldemort in the young boy.

"I can't," he replied softly. "There's nothing I can do."

For a moment, Tom looked as if he were about to cry. Instead, he sunk onto the edge of his bed, springs screaming as he did so, face a pale-white mask. "Fine!" he cried, folding his arms petulantly across his chest. "Fine. I won't go, I'll stay here. I don't need to go, anyway. I can already do all the magic I need to."

Harry hovered uncertainly above the boy for a moment, uncertain whether a comforting hand on Tom's shoulder would be accepted - or whether it would be thrown off. Finally, as Tom unfolded his arms, sniffling quietly, Harry placed a gentle arm around the black-haired boy's shoulders and eased him to his feet.

"No, you won't stay here," Harry said kindly. "You'll go to Hogwarts. It'll be hard, but you'll make friends, and have adventures, and do all sorts of crazy things. You'll have the time of your life. Soon, people will have forgotten all about-" he gestured aimlessly at their surroundings- "about _this_. They won't look at you and see Voldemort. They'll see Tom. Their friend."

"What if they don't?" Tom murmured.

"Then I'll have something to say about it," Harry said lightly. Stepping away from Tom, he picked up the black-haired boy's trunk. "Come here," he said, offering his hand to Tom.

Uncertainly, the pale-skinned boy took it. "What's going to happen?" Tom asked curiously.

"Apparition," Harry explained. "We'll be at Hogwarts before you can blink."

"Wizards can do that?"

"Yes, they can," Harry confirmed, smiling at Tom's awed expression. "But you won't be learning any of that for a while yet. Here we go. Three, two, one..."

With a loud _crack_ , they disappeared into thin air. Within moments, the ground rushed up towards them, and Harry and Tom landed with a _thump_ on a well-worn muddy track. The first thing Harry saw was a grand cast-iron gate, ten feet tall, flanked by two winged-boar statues. Perched on one of the grey-marble boars was a tabby cat, with spectacle-markings around its eyes and a curious gaze reserved for Tom. Harry smiled thinly as the cat met his eyes. _That's cruel_ , he mouthed. Beyond the gate, a tree-lined avenue disappeared in the distance, and even further away, rising among the pines-

"Hogwarts," Tom murmured, his mouth contorted in an innocent, joyous smile. He approached the gate uncertainly. "How do we get in?" he asked. Tom turned towards Harry, ignoring the tabby cat's amused stare. "Do we have to climb?"

"Why don't you ask the cat?" Harry suggested slyly.

"The _cat_ \- AARGH!"

Tom leapt back, yelling, as the cat-that-was-not-a-cat suddenly morphed into an ancient stern-faced woman, dressed in the distinctive trimmed-black robes of a Professor of Hogwarts. The black-haired boy stumbled backwards, and fell into a puddle as Professor McGonagall stared down at him. The Headmistress offered Tom a hand up, smiling thinly.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Riddle," she said.

* * *

Tom watched the carriages arrive. Grand, creaking constructs of black-painted wood, tens and tens of them, they lumbered across the grounds towards the castle, each tethered to a pair of skeletal black-winged horses. The carriages were packed with students, all wearing the familiar black robes of Hogwarts. As Tom watched, the carriages arrived at the castle's front steps; en masse, the students poured through the open castle doors, hundreds and hundreds of them, laughing, smiling, joking with each other about the year to come. None noticed the black-haired boy with scarlet eyes, watching them from a lonely balcony high above the Entrance Hall, and after several minutes, the flow of students into Hogwarts slowed to a trickle.

Tom recognised one or two familiar faces here and there. Below, in the Entrance Hall, greeting the students as they arrived, he recognised Longbottom from the Leaky Cauldron, looking considerably more Professorly now that he wore black robes instead of jeans and an apron. With a pang of dislike, Tom saw James Potter arrive, laughing and joking with his friends, and Aaron and Sally, and all the other children from his orphanage. There was another boy that looked like Potter, and a girl that looked faintly like Lily. Tom watched them cross the Entrance Hall, disappear into the Great Hall, and then there was silence.

Now was his turn, he supposed, glancing downwards towards the now-empty Entrance Hall. For a moment, all Tom heard was the soft _squeak_ of footsteps - and then Professor Longbottom stepped back into view, and the Great Hall doors swung shut behind him. He waved for Tom to come down, and the black-haired boy hurried down the staircase to join the Professor of Herbology. Soon, the other first-years arrived. They _squelched_ into the hall, drenched and dripping; evidently, they had sailed across the stormy lake. According to Hogwarts: A History, that was what first-years typically did.

Lily was one of the first first-years to hurry out of the rain into the Entrance Hall, her pretty face framed by her distinctive red curls. When she saw Tom and Longbottom she waved enthusiastically, and made a beeline across the Hall towards them. Beside her was a red-haired freckled boy. Tom didn't recognise him, but he suspected this was one of Lily's extended family - a cousin, perhaps. As Tom watched, skulking nervously by Longbottom's side, the red-haired boy whispered something into Lily's ear, and she frowned.

The two red-haired children were followed by a shivering crowd of first-years. As Tom watched them straggle into the Hall, frozen to the bone yet still chattering excitedly, he had never envied anyone so much.

"First years," called Longbottom, silencing the excited chatter. "I'm Professor Longbottom, teacher of Herbology at Hogwarts."

At the word _Longbottom_ , a tall fair-haired boy standing at the back of the crowd sniggered, and leaned over to whisper something to the girl standing next to him. Lithe, black-haired and handsome in a cold sort of way, she smirked. Longbottom ignored that little exchange. Similarly, he ignored the whisperings that had begun among the few first-years who had noticed Tom, standing shyly almost behind the tall Professor's back. All Longbottom did was urge Tom from his side towards the crowd. Rather thankful that he wasn't being stared at anymore, Tom squeezed in beside Lily.

"Hi," she whispered warmly as Longbottom began to explain the Sorting ceremony to the raptly-attentive first-years. Tom had read all about the ceremony already, of course. "I didn't see you on the train."

"Your dad brought me here," Tom said. "You know, Apparition. I guess he thought it would be easier."

He didn't quite manage to keep the bitterness from his voice, but Lily didn't seem to notice. "You _Apparated_?" she exclaimed excitedly. "Mum and Dad won't take me. They took James once, but they always say I'm too young - what's it like?"

"Weird," Tom admitted. "It's like-"

"Shush back there!" Longbottom suddenly snapped, interrupting his long-winded spiel on the history of Hogwarts to stare pointedly at Tom and Lily.

"Sorry, Nev - sir," Lily said, smiling apologetically at the Professor. Once Longbottom had resumed his lecture, she took Tom's arm and pulled him towards the back of the crowd, past the tall boy and the black-haired girl whose pale eyes lingered thoughtfully on Tom as he passed. "Nervous?" Lily asked in a particularly-low whisper. "For the Sorting?"

"I hadn't thought that much about it," Tom admitted quietly. "Does it really matter which House you're in?"

"Of _course_ it does-"

But Lily fell silent as the Great Hall doors swung open for the first time. Her mouth made a little awestruck 'o' shape as she saw it; the enchanted, rain-darkened ceiling, electric-blue lightning crackling far above; the massive painted banners that adorned the walls, gold and blue and green; the benches, packed from end to end with black-robed students, and at the far end of the Hall, the teachers, sitting at their own ornate table. In a tall-backed golden chair sat the elderly Headmistress, Professor McGonagall. As the doors opened, she tinkled her water-glass, and the Hall fell silent.

"Follow me," said Longbottom.

He led the first-years into the Hall. Inevitably, here too Tom drew stares, and mutters, and mockery. At the Gryffindor table, James Potter laughed loudly with his cluster of friends; at the sea of green that was Slytherin, Tom picked out one face in particular, a boy perhaps a year older than he was, with white-blonde hair and a pale, pointed face. Unmistakeably, this was the son of Draco Malfoy, the man who had so fervently campaigned for Tom's execution only a month ago. Nervously, Tom wilted further into the crowd of first-years.

A few whispers, carrying unexpectedly far in the silence, reached his ears even here.

"That's _him_! That's You-Know-Who's son!"

"Look at his _eyes_!"

"D'you think he _remembers_ any of it?" one girl murmured, sitting at the blue-clad Ravenclaw table. "All those murders..."

"Ignore them," Lily muttered suddenly. "Just ignore them."

But how could he? As the tiny, timid band of first-years crossed the Hall, walking through the narrow valley between tables towards an old, ragged hat perched on a stool, Tom's skin crawled. The Hall suddenly seemed a lot larger; the teacher's table was an eternity away, and faces were closing in on all sides, and Tom felt cold, hot panic rising within his chest-

And then a very strange thing happened. The first-years, having reached the end of the Hall, had clustered uncertainly around the old patchwork hat which Longbottom now stood beside. A moment passed in silence - and then the Hat began to sing.

"Of course what house you're in matters," Lily whispered in Tom's ear as the Sorting Hat began its song. Her warm, calming voice dragged Tom back from his momentary panic. "Your house is like your family here." She paused, almost imperceptibly. "Everybody in my family's been in Gryffindor."

"Gryffindor," Tom repeated thoughtfully. He thought back to half-forgotten passages of Hogwarts: A History. Was he brave? He thought he was. He was only eleven, and people already wanted him dead. He'd fought off the bullies at the orphanage. He'd put up with the matron's constant belittling of him. "I'd like to be in Gryffindor."

Lily said nothing. She stared at him, at the little black-haired boy with milky-pale skin and scarlet eyes, and her bright-brown eyes seemed almost sad, as if she knew something he didn't. "I hope you are," she whispered, as the Sorting Hat's song rose to a roaring crescendo.

Once the song was finished, the whole Hall broke into applause, which the Hat acknowledged with a deep bow. When the applause had died down, Longbottom withdrew a long roll of parchment from his sleeve and, one by one, he began to call the first-years forward.

"Nott, Wesley," was called; the tall fair-haired boy Tom had noticed earlier stepped forward, and was promptly dispatched to Slytherin. He was quickly joined at the table by the skinny black-haired girl he had been talking to earlier; her name was Harper. Hugo Weasley went to Gryffindor; a Davies boy, to Hufflepuff, a Macmillan girl, to Ravenclaw; several others, too, were Sorted before-

"Potter!" Longbottom called. As Lily, rather timidly, stepped forward, the Professor flashed her a reassuring smile. The tall, dark-blonde-haired man swept the Hat onto Lily's head. "Gryffindor!" it quickly cried.

As Lily walked away to join the rest of her House, she gave Tom an almost-apologetic look - and then she was gone, faded away into a sea of gold-and-red, her brother's arm wrapped victoriously around her shoulders, and it was Tom's turn.

"Riddle," Longbottom said casually. At this, the Hall erupted in frenzied muttering - which was quickly forestalled by a pointed cough from Professor McGonagall. The Hall fell silent, though the tension was still palpable. Tom could almost see the thoughts writ large upon their faces - _do we want him_? Was Tom a desirable commodity, or something to be avoided? From the looks on their faces, most of the students seemed to have settled upon the latter.

Tom stepped forward, heart thumping, pale-faced. Tentatively, Tom took a seat on the three-legged wooden stool. Longbottom placed the Hat upon his black-haired head, it fell down over Tom's eyes - and then suddenly a voice rang out in Tom's mind, clear as day. "Hmmm," said the Hat contemplatively. "Isn't this strange? I Sorted you seventy years ago, Tom Riddle, and I didn't expect you to be back."

"I'm not-" Tom began, before remembering he didn't need to speak to be understood. _I'm not Tom Riddle_ , he thought firmly. _Well - not the old one, anyway. I'm the new one_.

"Are you?" the Hat purred. "Are you? Yes, I see now. Very strange."

For a few long moments, the Hat said nothing; Tom could only sit there, the weight of the entire school's eyes upon him. _Er - are you going to Sort me?_ he thought politely.

"I'm thinking," the Hat replied curtly. "I _am_ a Thinking Hat, you know."

 _Oh. Sorry._

"Let's see," the Hat continued, and Tom had the unpleasant feeling that someone had peeled open the top of his skull and was searching about inside. "What do you have in here, Tom? Let's see... there's intelligence, of course. Great intelligence. You know that, though, don't you? Yes, you certainly live up to your namesake...there's talent, yes, great talent, a bright future...I see you've already been experimenting with magic..."

 _So_? Tom thought rather nervously.

"What do you want from life, Tom?" the Hat asked suddenly.

 _I want people to stop staring at me._

"I see," rumbled the Hat's deep voice. "Freak. You detest that word, Tom."

 _So where are you going to Sort me_?

"You want a family, Tom," said the Hat. "You want to be seen as a person, not as a freak. You will find that at Hogwarts, I am sure. Wherever I Sort you."

 _So_ -

"You are the heir of Slytherin," the Hat interrupted.

 _No, I_ -

"You are," the Hat said simply. "There is only one place I can put you, Tom. Good luck."

Tom glanced quickly to his left, to the Gryffindor table; for an instant, his eyes met Lily's.

"Slytherin!" the Hat boomed, and Longbottom plucked the Hat from Tom's head. The Hall was still silent. A few uncertain Slytherins broke into brief applause, but they were few and far between, and quickly stopped.

"Remember, Tom," Longbottom whispered, his warm hand on Tom's shoulder as he stepped shakily off the stool. "The Sorting Hat sees your potential. Your future. Great wizards have come from Slytherin."

Silently, Tom nodded, then skulked off to join the Slytherin table. Slowly, as he walked, heaving platters of food appeared on every table, and the Great Hall returned to life. Tom took a seat beside the black-haired Harper girl though, as he sat down, she edged a foot or two away from him. Tom barely noticed. He was in Slytherin, like Tom Riddle - Voldemort - before him. What now?

Across the table sat Harper's friend Wesley Nott, and the boy with white-blonde hair - Draco Malfoy's son. He leant towards Tom now, offering a pale hand in greeting. Uncertainly, Tom took it.

"Scorpius," the boy said.

"Tom," Tom replied.

"So-" Scorpius lowered his voice- "Is it true you can talk to snakes?"


	7. Fourth Year

_Part 2 - Fourth Year..._

* * *

 _TOM RIDDLE - A RETROSPECTIVE_

 _By Elizabeth Selwyn_

 _It is now three years since this mysterious red-eyed boy surfaced, seemingly from nowhere. Now, as he prepares to begin his fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Prophet asks; what has changed? Riddle's time at Hogwarts has been blighted by reports of fighting with fellow students, of gross misconduct, of disinterest in his lessons, and unseemly Dark experimentations with magic. This feature will speak with those who know Riddle best - his fellow students. Through these interviews, and consultations with experts in the field of Dark magic, the Prophet seeks to answer the question on everyone's lips; is Riddle still dangerous?_

Elizabeth could already picture the article in her mind's eye. A Pucey Prize-winner, for sure - but first, there was work to be done. Thankfully, she sat at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron, and it was the night of the thirty-first of August, and the Leaky Cauldron was always especially busy on that day. Hogwarts students were everywhere. At the bar, tall Neville Longbottom was saying goodbye to his wife. Soon, he would head off to Hogwarts to make preparations for the new crop of first-years' arrival.

Elsewhere in the dingy, cramped pub, Hogwarts gamekeeper Hagrid was drinking boisterously with wizened old Professor Slughorn; as Elizabeth watched, sipping a Gillywater and gin, they broke into loud song. In the centre of the pub, a crowd had gathered around a slender blonde-haired woman and her husband. Despite Longbottom's weak protestations, the pair had brought a veritable ark of exotic animals into the Leaky Cauldron, and were showing them off for all to see; rumour had it that the animals in question had only recently been freed from an illegal breeding house in North London. Elizabeth made a mental note to investigate the story.

Watching this all unfold from a hidden-away alcove - the same hidden-away alcove, Elizabeth had discovered, from which he had watched three years ago, on his very first visit here - were Tom Riddle and his friends. In her role as 'official Tom Riddle reporter', Elizabeth recognised Riddle's Slytherin school-mates by sight. The slight, graceful girl beside him, staring so fawningly at the handsome black-haired teen, was Harper Davis. On Riddle's other side were two boys, laughing and joking with each other; tall Wesley Nott, and beside him... Elizabeth felt the usual flicker of puzzlement when she saw Scorpius Malfoy. If Draco Malfoy despised Riddle so vehemently, why would he allow his son to befriend him?

Across the gloom, Riddle's scarlet eyes found Elizabeth, and with a sly smile she turned away. Riddle got very angry whenever she got too close to him, and Elizabeth had more important things to do tonight than start a fight.

* * *

"Look at the nose on that!" Scorpius exclaimed loudly. The fifteen year-old with white-blonde hair gestured across their table, through the crowded pub towards the Leaky Cauldron's open doorway. A Muggle-born family had just stepped inside, and the father, a burly man with greying hair, had one of the largest noses Tom had ever seen. Earlier, Tom had placed a tall glass jar, filled with conjured blue flames, on the tabletop; Scorpius' wild, enthusiastic arm-wave towards the Muggle man knocked it over.

"That's got to be magical," Nott reckoned, as Tom slid his wand from his sleeve. He pointed his wand at the broken glass and it hurriedly reformed into jar-form. With a deft flick, his blue flames reappeared within the glass. "I'm telling you, his daughter - her, over there in the first-year outfit - she'll have done it without knowing what she's doing. Engorgement Charm. He's come in here to get it fixed."

"It's not _magical_ ," Scorpius scoffed. "Look at his son's nose, that's already going the same way. It's those Muggle good looks shining through, that's what it is."

"Look-"

"It's not magical," Tom interrupted quietly. "Magic leaves traces." His icy tone said that that was the end of the matter, and Nott and Malfoy fell silent.

For a short while, anyway. "Who's she?" Nott demanded, following Tom's scarlet gaze to the blonde woman at the bar. Elizabeth Selwyn, dressed in form-fitting jeans and a short-sleeved t-shirt, was chatting across the counter to Professor Longbottom. "You know her?"

"He wishes," Scorpius laughed.

"She's a journalist," Tom said, scarlet eyes flitting slowly back towards his friends. "She's always writing stories about me."

"I don't like her," Harper said immediately.

"You wouldn't," said Scorpius, with a sly glance at Nott.

Harper flushed. "What's that supposed to-"

"Shush, Harp," Nott interrupted, nudging Tom pointedly. Following the lanky fair-haired teen's gaze to the Leaky Cauldron's front door, Tom saw the extended Potter-Weasley clan in mid-arrival. Potter and the other adults - Potter's wife, Granger, and several other red-headed people Tom didn't know - lead the way. Next to squeeze inside the Leaky Cauldron's warmth were Hugo, always sniggering at some private joke at Tom's expense, that sap Albus, Rose Weasley, and - Tom felt a little jolt of revulsion - James.

As James stepped inside, his gaze swept the Cauldron's interior - and then lingered on Tom. With a mocking little wave towards the black-haired teen, James stepped away from his family and made his way across the room towards Tom and his friends. Behind James, Tom felt a little rush of - something - as Lily stepped through the door. Her flame-red hair was tucked under a woollen hat, her cheeks flushed with the early-autumn chill. She glanced to her left as she entered; when she saw Tom, she gave him a warm smile, and made to mouth something. But then James, with a knowing half-grin, side-stepped slightly as he walked, and Tom lost sight of Lily.

"How's it going, Slits?" James called by way of greeting. As the older man neared the table he flicked his wand lazily, and a cushy armchair popped out of thin air across the table from Tom. James promptly sank into it.

"Get lost," said Tom. Sometimes, when a person utterly, utterly despises someone, all thoughts of self-control and restraint and sanity are forgotten, and all they wish to do is hurt that someone however they can, as often as they can. Tom and James seemed to share that special enmity.

James just grinned, eyes sliding from Tom to his companions as they watched the black-haired eighteen year-old warily. "Still hanging out with these weirdos?"

Tom hurriedly hushed Scorpius and Nott's angry responses. "I heard you got a job at the Ministry," he remarked calmly. It was James's first year out of Hogwarts, and Tom was looking forward to it very much. "I suppose it's easier when your dad works there."

James's grin faded slightly. "True," he admitted, leaning casually backwards in his armchair. "Maybe when you're older, Slits, _your_ dad can - oh, wait."

"You shut up," Harper hissed angrily. On Tom's other side, Nott rose to his feet, wand in hand - as did Tom.

"Get lost," he said again, voice even.

Smirking smugly, James rose to his feet. He made to turn to leave - but then, whirling, seized Tom's arm. As James's fingernails bit painfully into Tom's pale skin, he leaned in close to whisper in Tom's ear. "Good luck this year, Slits," he whispered. "Big year, fourth year. A lot of...changes."

"Thanks," Tom muttered darkly.

He tried to pull away, but James tightened his grip on Tom's forearm. "Keep your hands off my sister," James hissed.

As James walked away, Nott, Scorpius and Harper gave Tom questioning glances. "What did he say?" they asked.

Stomach churning nervously, Tom ignored them.

* * *

"How did you meet Tom Riddle?" Elizabeth asked, notebook at the ready.

James Potter grinned. "Can I buy you a drink?"

With well-practised ease, Elizabeth flashed a sweet smile at the eighteen year-old. "If you answer the question."

"Slits? It was in here," James said, peering over Elizabeth's shoulder towards the fourteen year-old boy. "He was hiding in that shady little corner, just like he is now, like he was doing something he didn't want people to see. Just watching everyone else. I went over and said hello, and he just stared at me with those big red eyes of his. He told me to leave him alone, so I did."

"Slits?"

"A little joke we have," James explained.

"OK." Elizabeth scrawled a few notes, then returned her attention to James. "How does he behave at school?"

"Last year he tried to curse me," James said. Turning to the bartender, he ordered two drinks. "I was just walking along the corridor with some friends, minding my own business, when suddenly he's rushing towards me, wild, crazy-eyed." James laughed. "Slits was lucky my sister was there to hold him back, or he could have gotten really hurt."

"Uh-huh." Elizabeth scribbled another note. "Do you think he's dangerous?"

"Definitely," said James, sliding Elizabeth's drink towards her. "You got enough for your article?"

"Actually," she said, "I could do with talking to a few other students. Maybe some that are closer to Riddle in age."

"Er - OK." Turning away, James spied two passing red-haired teens and waved them over. "Hugo, Rose, come here."

"Yeah?" asked Hugo Weasley, sidling over to James' side. He and his sister eyed Elizabeth curiously.

"Hi, I'm Elizabeth Selwyn, reporter for the _Daily Prophet_ ," Elizabeth said, holding out a hand to each of them in turn. Hugo took her hand, she noticed, but Rose hesitated for a long moment before she did the same. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"

"Sure," Hugo said.

"OK..." Elizabeth put pen to paper in anticipation. "How did you meet Tom Riddle?"

Hugo shrugged. "We were in the same classes. He was always trailing around after Lily. I kept telling him to go away, but he never listened."

Elizabeth glanced at the red-haired girl beside her brother. "Rose?"

"Well, I'd seen him around a lot, in the corridors and in classrooms and places like that," Rose said. "He's hard to miss. Wherever he went, people were always staring and whispering. I didn't talk to him until - oh, it was lunchtime, sometime in November. Tom would have been in first year, I guess. He normally sat at the Slytherin table, but this time he was at the Gryffindor table with Lily - that's my cousin, Lily Potter. They were revising - oh, Charms, or something, they had textbooks out on the table and were going through the incantations. I sat down and said 'hi'. He didn't say much, but he seemed nice enough."

"How does he behave at school?" Elizabeth asked.

"He's always in trouble," Hugo said. "He's-"

"Quite normal, really," said Rose, with a worried look at her brother. "He gets a bit of a hard time. You know, people shouting things at him, or trying to jinx him in the corridor, that sort of thing. Yeah, he retaliates sometimes, but who wouldn't? I haven't heard anything about any experiments with Dark magic. I mean, he's always inventing things - he gave Lily this beautiful music-box for her birthday last year - but Dark magic? I don't think so."

"Do _you_ think he's dangerous, Rose?" Elizabeth asked.

"Dangerous? No way."

"Well, thanks," said Elizabeth, flashing a smile at the pair. "I'm sure you'll see your name in the paper, Hugo. As for you, Rose...well, perhaps we'll squeeze you in somewhere." She suddenly saw another red-haired head flash by, and called out; "Lily? Can I have a word?"

"Get lost," was Lily's only reply.

* * *

Once they passed through the barrier into the bustling, smoky expanse of Platform 9 and ¾, Lily's family scattered to the winds. Mum and Dad headed off to find Aunt Hermione, Uncle Ron, Hugo and Rose, who had travelled in a separate car. James was immediately spotted by a merry band of old school friends and promptly dragged away into the mists. Albus skulked off to meet his girlfriend, and then she was alone; just Lily, her suitcase, and her fluffy ginger-furred cat. As her older brother faded into the crowd, Lily turned away to search for her own friends - and thudded into Tom's chest.

The fourteen year-old boy, dressed in ragged second-hand robes, still clutching that battered brown suitcase of his, had just stepped through the platform barrier alone. He was tall now, a foot taller than Lily, and handsome, with tousled black hair, pale skin and regal features. His eyes, though, were the same as they had always been, narrow crimson slits, always gleaming, always darting around thoughtfully, never lingering for a moment. They flitted to Lily now, and widened in surprise.

"Oh - uh, sorry," Lily muttered hastily, taking a quick step backwards. Suddenly, as she stared up into those unsettling crimson eyes, Lily realised she and Tom hadn't actually spoken since before the summer. How had she missed him at the Leaky Cauldron? He'd been there - was Tom avoiding her? "Er - hi," she added awkwardly.

"Er..." For some reason, the dark-haired boy looked as if there were a thousand places he'd rather be. Stepping past Lily, moving away from the barrier as students continued to stream through, he scanned the packed platform for his friends. "Er - hi, Lily," he mumbled half-heartedly as he glanced around through the smoke. She stepped to his side, and for a moment he looked as if he were going to shy away. The dark-haired boy didn't, but he did fidget awkwardly as Lily turned to him, and continue to look around anxiously.

"So - er - how was your summer?" Lily asked. The instant she asked the question, she regretted it. _He lives in an orphanage where everyone hates him, for god's sake_ , _how do you think his summer was_? "Sorry - stupid question," she said, flushing.

Tom seemed to perk up slightly at Lily's embarrassed reaction, and he almost smiled. "Not too bad, I suppose," he said, finally seeming to give up the hunt for his friends and turning to her. "Yours was better, I'll bet."

"Oh, I don't know..." As Tom gave her a knowing look, Lily couldn't help but laugh. "Okay, we went to Spain for two weeks. Better than Hogsmeade Orphanage, I suppose. You should come with us! Dad, Mum, they'd all want to see you. You never answer Dad's letters. His invitations. That first year at Hogwarts, you could have spent Christmas with us. Why didn't you?"

Tom's face darkened. "I wouldn't be welcome."

"You _would_!"

"Tell James that," Tom said sourly.

"James doesn't come on holiday with us anymore," Lily reminded him. "Just - think about it for next summer, OK?"

"OK," Tom said, though he looked troubled. He took another long, nervous glance around before he spoke again. "You know they wouldn't let me out all summer?"

"What?"

"The orphanage," Tom explained morosely. "I could _see_ Honeydukes, and Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and all the other shops, but they wouldn't let me out."

"Why?" Lily exclaimed.

"I don't know." Bitterly, he shrugged. "I think they thought I might try and blow up the town or something if I got outside the orphanage. You should see it; every time I pick up my wand the entire place freezes."

She frowned. "You haven't been inventing spells again, have you?"

"No," Tom replied - but after a moment, he grinned sheepishly. "Maybe one or two. I didn't blow anything up, I swear. Here, look."

Diving into the pockets of his robes, Tom pulled out a bedraggled old quill. "Try it," he urged, handing the quill to Lily.

Placing the quill nib to the back of her left hand, Lily quickly scrawled her name. When the letters appeared, each sparkled a different colour, and the words seemed to almost vibrate as she watched. "Wow," she murmured excitedly. With the tip of the quill, Lily doodled a star-shape on her suitcase; it glowed gold, then red, then blue. It was beautiful. "Is this a Bedazzling Charm?"

"Well, I altered it slightly," Tom told her, a slight flush in his pale cheeks. "But yeah. You keep that," he added in a nervous rush as Lily made to hand the quill back to him.

"No, I couldn't-"

"Listen, I wouldn't know what the hell a Bedazzling Charm _is_ without you letting me copy your notes all last year, Lily. You keep it."

"I - thanks, Tom," Lily said sincerely, tucking the quill into her own pocket. "So - er - shall we get on board?" she asked, nodding towards the Hogwarts Express. The clock had just ticked five to eleven. "Find a compartment?"

For some reason, Tom hesitated. "I..." he glanced over his shoulder to the barrier, then up the platform to where Lily's extended family had congregated to board the train. James was there, and he threw a friendly wave towards Lily and Tom as they gazed on. The smile Tom had worn a few seconds ago quickly faded. "Er - actually, I should go find my friends. I need to - well, I should go. Sorry." Suitcase in hand, he half-turned away from Lily. "Er - bye."

"Bye," she murmured as he walked away.


	8. Gryffindor vs Slytherin

_Gryffindor vs. Slytherin_

* * *

The Slytherin common room was particularly busy this Saturday morning. As Tom stepped into the room, yawning, dressed in a faded sapphire-blue t-shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans, the gloomy candle-lit chill was punctuated for once by the low excited chatter of voices. The bottle-green armchairs, scattered haphazardly around the black-stone room, were all occupied, and a hundred more students had squeezed into the common room besides. The students seemed to almost emanate in concentric waves from a cluster of tall bottle-green-robed figures standing by the crackling fire. Five there were, and each clutched a sleek wooden broomstick in their hands.

As Tom stood in the dormitory doorway, a gaggle of excited first and second years pushed past him to make a beeline towards the Quidditch players. They thrust forwards parchments, pictures and pens, demanding autographs, and Tom stepped further away from the dormitories into the common room. He skulked through the crowd, stepping lightly, searching in vain for a familiar face. Even here, even now, people still shied away when they saw the dark-haired boy with scarlet eyes. Tom was long past caring.

Across the room, a hand-painted banner had been draped across the common room noticeboard; six feet wide, precisely the same shade of green as the Quidditch players' robes, it read _GRYFFINDOR STINKS_ in lurid-scarlet lettering. As Tom watched, a painted serpent slithered into existence on the left-hand side of the banner, its scales an eclectic pattern of emeralds, sapphires and rubies. It devoured the scarlet letters one by one and then - with a face of disgust - spat the letters back out. Tom couldn't help but grin; it was a great bit of magic. Of course it was - he'd done it. His three-Galleon fee still jingled in his pockets.

Abandoning his search for Harper or Scorpius - Nott had still been changing into his Quidditch robes when Tom left the dormitory - Tom turned towards the stairs that lead upwards out of the Slytherin common room. It was then that a fresh round of applause broke out, and two more green-robed figures stepped from the boys' dormitories clutching broomsticks. Turning, Tom saw Scorpius Malfoy striding arrogantly into the common room, and behind him lanky fair-haired Nott. Nott made a beeline through the crowd towards his Quidditch teammates, but Scorpius, smirking, sidled across the common room towards Tom. For a very long time in first year, Scorpius Malfoy's perverse interest in Tom had been the closest thing the dark-haired boy had to friendship. Well, that and Lily.

"If it isn't our number one fan," the blond-haired teen drawled as he approached. Handing his broom to Tom, who caught it awkwardly, he snatched a sandwich from a nearby platter. "You coming to the game today?"

"No." Tom was unfailingly stubborn on this count; he couldn't care less about Quidditch. Tom's flying experience began, and ended, with a brief hover back in first year - and even then he had contrived to fall off the bloody thing. Aside from that, Tom found the whole thing exasperating. For weeks leading up to a game, Slytherins were expected to despise, taunt and otherwise intimidate any member of the opposing House they would soon face. And as far as the actual sport - well, it baffled Tom.

"Why not?" Scorpius demanded. "What else are you going to do instead? Go to the library?"

"I might," Tom said defensively. "I have some stuff to research-"

" _Everyone_ will be there!" Scorpius exclaimed. "Even your bloody Lily."

Tom flushed. "I - I'm going to the library," he said, turning away towards the steps. "Enjoy your game."

Scorpius made a derisive noise. "Hey, Tom?" he called as the dark-haired boy climbed the steps. Against his better instincts, Tom glanced over his shoulder. "Nott and me have a bet going," Scorpius said slyly. "Which of us will knock Lily Potter off her broom first? Care to place a wager?"

Tom strode away, and Scorpius laughed.

* * *

As Tom walked, lost in thoughts of Conjuring Charms and Vanishing Spells and giant wars, on a meandering path through the virtually-deserted castle towards the library, he suddenly hit something large, heavy and squidgy. With a surprised _oof_ of pain, he fell to the floor. When Tom looked up he saw a burly sixth-year Hufflepuff boy, blond-haired and scowling. The teen reminded him of Aaron for some reason. The Hufflepuff teenager's towering pile of books had been scattered all over the floor by the unexpected impact.

"Here, let me help," Tom began apologetically, scrabbling to his feet. He knelt to help the Hufflepuff teen gather up his books.

As Tom picked up _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six_ , the blond-haired teen snatched it from his hands and shoved Tom away. "Get lost, freak," he snapped.

With a hot rush of anger, Tom slid his pale-yew wand from his pocket and levelled it towards the Hufflepuff's chest. The blond-haired teen, stooped to collect up his books, leapt to his feet, eyes wide, hands raised. "What the-"

Tom lowered his wand towards the stone floor beneath the Hufflepuff teen. _Reducto!_ he thought fiercely. The floor beneath the blond-haired teen fell away with a muffled _whump_. For one comical, terrified moment, the Hufflepuff and his books seemed to hang in the air - and then they fell. The books dropped towards the next floor down, a corridor ten feet below, and clattered into the carpet there. The blond-haired teen, too, began to plummet, but Tom quickly thought _Duro_! With his charm, the floor instantly reappeared - around the Hufflepuff's waist. The teen's legs dangled out of sight, and the Hufflepuff glanced around frantically as if he were not quite sure what had just happened.

"Are you mad?" he exclaimed. "You could have cut me in half!"

Tom knelt before the boy. "Don't call me a freak," he said. "I hate that."

He flashed the Hufflepuff teen a sly little smirk, then left him there. Two minutes later, as Tom stepped through the library's grand wooden doors perusing one of the Hufflepuff boy's textbooks, he almost walked into another student. "Sorry-" he began - before realising it was Lily who stood before him, dressed in the scarlet-and-gold robes of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Her broom, a gleaming new Nimbus, was tucked under her arm, and her bright-brown eyes widened at the sight of Tom.

He had been true to his word to James - Tom hadn't been this close to Lily since the start of term, back at Platform 9 & ¾. Truth be told, he was avoiding her. In classes Tom sat as far away from the flame-haired girl as possible. In those classes where they were thrown together by the alphabetic-seating system, he made sure to keep Nott by his side at all times. He knew Lily detested the lanky Slytherin boy. In corridors, if he saw Lily approaching, Tom would turn around and head the other way. He'd gotten very used to the sight of hurt and confusion in Lily's eyes. "Er - hi," he said awkwardly.

Lily glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. "Hi," she said quietly.

"So - why - why aren't you at the game?" Tom asked.

"It doesn't start until three," she explained, with another nervous glance over her shoulder. Two Gryffindor first year girls squeezed by to enter the library, and they flashed gossiping looks at the pair of fourth-years as they passed. Lily blushed furiously. "Er - listen - can we not talk here?"

"I..." Abruptly, Lily seized Tom's arm and pulled him away from the library doorway into a nearby empty classroom. Beyond, before Lily eased the door shut, Tom saw the two first year girls put their heads together, already whispering and giggling about something. "What was that about?" he demanded, rubbing his arm where Lily had grabbed him.

"Sorry about that," she said, face flushing an even deeper shade of crimson. "It's just - well, it's Quidditch today, and people wouldn't like me being seen - er - fraternising with the enemy."

"The enemy?" he repeated dryly.

"Sorry, that sounds stupid," she said all in a rush. "You're not the enemy, you're...you know, I should actually be going."

 _Let her go,_ urged a voice in Tom's mind as she turned towards the door. A voice that sounded rather like James. "Wait," he urged suddenly. "So - er - what were you doing in the library?"

"Oh, that," she said, with a hesitant little grin. Her hand slipped away from the doorknob. "Things were getting a little macho in the common room for my liking. You know, shouting _We Hate Slytherin, Slytherins go Die,_ that sort of thing. Except with a lot more swearing. There was a lot of slapping people on the back. So I snuck up here to relax before the game."

"Right - er - the game," said Tom. His brain seemed suddenly to have stopped working. "Do you think you'll win?"

"Maybe," she shrugged. "Pucey's a great Keeper of course, and Selwyn and Goyle are pretty solid, but the rest of the Slytherin team..." Clueless, Tom nodded along with Lily as she described in detail the Slytherin Quidditch team's myriad qualities and failings. "Hey," she said suddenly, "will you be there?"

"Er - of course," Tom said on a sudden impulse. "Never miss a game."

"Really? I thought you hated Quidditch."

"No, I love it."

"Uh-huh," she said dubiously. She glanced at her wrist - then, realising she wore no watch, pulled Tom's arm towards her to peruse the battered old timepiece he wore. "I'd better get down there, actually. Er - see you later, then."

She turned towards the doorway. "Good luck," Tom called as she pulled the door open. "Don't tell anyone, or you'll find me murdered in my bed, but I hope you win."

Lily beamed at that. Pausing in the doorway, she seemed to hesitate a moment - and then offered a hand to Tom. "You coming?"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "I thought I was - er - the enemy."

"Oh, who cares?"

* * *

"Hi, Harp," Tom said, sliding into a seat beside the girl with raven-black hair. They were high in the stands above the distant grass of the Quidditch field, lost in the sea of green-and-silver that was the Slytherin end of the stadium. At the other end was a pulsing mass of scarlet and gold where the Gryffindors sat. Tom had walked down with Lily to the Quidditch pitch, but he hadn't dared to try and sit _there._ So here he was beside Harper, a fourth-year friend of Tom's. When she heard his voice, she turned, and smiled a pleasantly-surprised smile, and shifted up on the bench to make room for him.

"I thought you weren't coming?" she asked, taking Tom's hand in her own without asking. Her hands were cold, Tom noticed, colder by far than Lily's, and her fingernails were painted an unpleasant turquoise. "You never come to Quidditch."

"I changed my mind," Tom said. Harper gave him a suspicious look. "I did!" he said defensively. "I can't wait to see us beat these Gryffindor - er - swines."

Slowly, Harper nodded. "Well, you won't have to wait long. Gryffindor are rubbish. _Rubbish_!" she yelled, and a cheer went up from the surrounding Slytherin students.

Surreptitiously dropping her hand, Tom turned to face the game. Out there in the air - well, he was no expert, but fourteen robed figures, some in scarlet, some in emerald-green, were zooming around on their broomsticks chasing an assortment of brightly-coloured balls. One of them was Lily, he supposed; perhaps that was her there, a mere scarlet speck gliding gracefully through the air a thousand feet above. "So - er - what's the score?" he asked awkwardly.

"Oh, it's - _yes_!" Harper suddenly exclaimed, throwing her arms up in the air in celebration as one of the green-robed figures threw a red ball through a hoop. "Get that up you, you _cheating - Gryffindor - sc_ -"

"Harp."

"Oh - it's seventy-forty," she said, smiling happily. "We're winning."

"Ah," he remarked, forcing a pleased nod. He hadn't lied earlier to Scorpius; he _didn't_ care about Quidditch.

Tom wasn't sure how long he sat there, watching the game go by. He amused himself by trying out various little charms he was working on. One magnified his eyesight by a hundred times; another conjured tiny little green flames in the palm of his hand. Pop something into the flames, and that something would instantly reappear somewhere else. He wasn't quite sure where yet, but he knew it was somewhere. After he had grown tired of this, he spent a happy few minutes levitating the hats off the heads of those who sat ahead of him in the stands. Beside Tom, Harper was very involved in the game. Every so often she'd leap to her feet - dragging Tom with her, as she had now reclaimed control of his hand - to yell encouragement to Scorpius, or Nott, or perhaps scream curses and insults towards those in scarlet.

One particular incident involving the two Seekers - Lily, Tom now recognised with his amplified vision, and Scorpius - particularly enraged Tom's not-quite-girlfriend. As the two Seekers dove towards the ground in a near-vertical race for the little golden Snitch, Lily threw an elbow into Scorpius Malfoy's face. As the Slytherin crowd exploded in uproar, Tom tried to point out that, only a few seconds before, Scorpius had tugged back the Gryffindor Seeker's broomstick and jabbed his wand into her stomach, but Harper shouted him down.

"You _dirty - cheating - Gryffindor - sl-"_

The rest of Harper's demented, accusing screams were drowned out by the furious jeers of the Slytherin crowd as Scorpius fell away, clutching his nose, and Lily grabbed the Snitch triumphantly. "Gryffindor win!" the commentator boomed.

Grumbling, most still shaking their heads angrily, some frantically gesturing to their friends as to why Lily's gesture ought to have been a foul, the Slytherins sloped back up to the castle. The atmosphere quickly turned poisonous. One seventh-year even questioned why Tom did not look so angered, so wretchedly enraged, as the rest of the Slytherins - if not quite in terms as verbose as that. Tom told him to get lost. The seventh-year threw the first punch, Tom ducked, Harper took the blow in the face, and two hours later Tom found himself in detention with Professor McGonagall. Still, it could be worse.

The seventh-year was still in the hospital wing.


	9. A Day in the Life of Lily Potter

_A Day in the Life of Lily Potter_

* * *

Dear diary. My Muggle Studies teacher wants us to write an account of one whole entire day at Hogwarts. I think its stupid, personally, but she said we have to, so here it goes...

* * *

 **7:32 AM** – Wake up. Grudgingly. My alarm clock screeches me awake with a shrill wail. It's a handsome, ornate round-faced clock, too clever for its own good – when I, groaning tiredly, roll over and squeeze my eyes shut, it jumps up on spindly little legs and begins to do a merry little dance on my head. A present from Aunt Hermione – not that I'm feeling particularly thankful towards her right now.

"Okay, okay!" I grumble, pushing the alarm clock off of me and sliding out of bed. When I pause for a hearty yawn, the alarm clock taps its foot impatiently. " _Okay_!"

Bare-foot, dressed in hazel-brown Holyhead Harpies pyjamas (Uncle Ron wanted me to support the Cannons, but Mum said she'd rather eat her own foot), I stoop to check the calendar magically pinned to the foot of my four-poster bed, then groan as my suspicions are confirmed; it's Monday.

Over the next five minutes, the dormitory slowly wakes. The four-poster curtains _swish_ back, tired heads pop out – then quickly retract with the ubiquitous tired groans. By eight o'clock, we're all dressed in our robes, Hogwarts ties around our necks, bags heaving with the day's schoolwork, and ready to head down to breakfast.

* * *

 **8:12 AM** – Mail arrives. I'm elbow deep in a bowl of Hippogriff Flakes when I first hear it; the distant twittering, the great, onrushing _whoosh_ of thousands of owls in flight. In seconds, they're here. The owls sweep in past the teacher's table, where Professors McGonagall, Slughorn and Longbottom are breaking their fast. There's a tottering pile of official-looking parchment for the wizened old Headmistress, a bulging, carefully-wrapped Leaky Cauldron care package for Neville, and a slender phial of green-tinged liquid for Slughorn – which he surreptitiously slips beneath the folds of his cloak at the first opportunity.

As the owls swoop on, towards the four long tables of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin, I spot our owl Cadbert. Handsome and tawny, he has two rolls of parchment clutched in his talons. A little way down the table, Cadbert lands with a flutter of wings in front of Albus. One letter for him, and one for me. The owl rises into the air, then swoops towards me. It lands atop my pile of freshly-buttered toast.

"No, no – get off-" Too late. A chuckle rings out among my friends and the neighbouring tables as the owl – er – _does its business_ on my toast. "Ugh!" Snatching my letter – it's from Mum and Dad – from Cadbert's claws, I shoo him into the air. Withdrawing my wand from my pocket, I point it at the now rather-smelly toast. " _Scourgify_!"

As the droppings disappear, behind my back I hear the passing-by Scorpius Malfoy emit a guffaw of laughter. He has that cretin Nott, that foul Harper girl and - with a little jolt, I recognise Tom - in tow.

"I hope you're not going to _eat_ that toast, Potter," he announces to the general vicinity. "Then again, you're half-Weasley, so maybe this is a treat for you."

I feel my ears grow hot with anger, but I don't rise to it. Instead, pushing the ruined toast away towards the centre of the table, I return my attention to my parents' letter. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Malfoy and his laughing lackeys moving on towards the Slytherin table. Tom lingers for a moment uncertainly, eyes apologetic, but then Nott turns and calls to him and the black-haired boy hurries off. Afterwards, I check Monday's timetable; Potions, followed by Herbology – both with the Slytherins.

 _Yay_.

* * *

 **9:43 AM** – Potions. Old Professor Slughorn sets us a Wit-Sharpening Potion for today's class. Nott and Harper Davis laugh when my concoction fails to work and frizzes my hair, but I get the last laugh – I slip a sliver of Asphodel in their cauldron, and they spend the rest of the period speaking in tongues. Tom, I think, spots me doing it, from his seat on the other side of the dungeon with his Slytherin friends, but he says nothing – indeed, I'm fairly sure I saw him flash a grin towards me as Nott stumbled around the classroom, yelling unintelligibly.

His potion worked _perfectly_ , of course. Tom's. Not that his wits need sharpening, anyway. He's clever enough by half already.

* * *

 **11:04 AM** – Break, finally, after an hour digging around in the dirt in Herbology. I love Neville, but plants – not for me, thanks. It's fifteen minutes in the courtyard, huddled together with my friends in a vain attempt to seek some shelter from the December cold, before the bell mercifully rings, and – rubbing our frozen hands together gratefully – we're whisked off towards Transfiguration.

* * *

 **12:36 PM** – Transfiguration passes without incident – besides poor Lucy Finnigan accidentally Vanishing her elbow – and then it's time for a quick lunch. I wolf down half a ham sandwich, then hurry off to the library to begin work on an essay for Professor Vector. Fun, Aunt Hermione said Arithmancy would be.

 _Fun_.

* * *

 **16:23 PM** – Double Charms to finish the day. After an enjoyable two hours spent mastering Cheering Charms – Lucy and I spent fifteen minutes firing charms at Tom under the table, and he spent the rest of the lesson in hysterical giggles – I immediately hurry off to Quidditch practise before the rest of the muted-evening light fades. Everyone else goes to dinner.

We can see the lights from the darkened, icy-cold Quidditch field. Teeth chattering loudly, robes wrapped tightly around me, I half-heartedly search for the Snitch, though it could be anywhere in this darkness. My hands feel like they're frozen to my broom. Note to self – wear gloves next time. Although I may not have to, I think darkly; any longer in this freezing, clawing wind, and my fingers will fall off.

* * *

 **18:01 PM** – Finally. After two hours in the bone-chilling December cold – when the sky has long-since faded to an ebony blanket, and a cold, drizzly downpour has swept in from the north, making us look like so many drowned rats – the captain calls time. The rest of the team slope back towards the castle in the faint hopes that dinner is still ongoing. Head bowed against the driving rain, I sprint for Hagrid's.

As the squat stone cottage looms out of the darkness, giant pumpkins eerily misshapen in the twilight, I dash for the wooden front door. "Hagrid, it's me!" I yell, thumping three times, hard, on the thick wood. From within, I hear the scraping of chair legs on stone, and the muffled barking of Fluffy. Hagrid _claims_ his dog is just a regular boarhound, but I _swear_ I saw Fluffy breathe fire once.

The door swings open; Hagrid, colossal and hairy, his wiry beard flecked with grey, looks around for a second before noticing me, shivering beneath my drenched robes. "Come in, come in!" he urges, ushering me in through the door with hands the size of dustbin lids. "Get a seat by the fire, there yeh go-"

I sink onto a stool by the always-roaring fire. As Fluffy, barking happily, bounds towards me, Hagrid crosses to the stove, where a pot is bubbling over.

"I could see yeh from here," he continues, slopping a fistful of assorted meat-chunks into the pot. "Thought yeh might pay a visit. You'll be wanting your dinner, I s'pose."

"Thanks," I reply whole-heartedly. "How are the Hippogriffs, Hagrid?"

We've been studying them in Care of Magical Creatures for the last few weeks.

"Ah, they're alright," Hagrid says, filling two bowls the size of Quaffles with a thick brown stew. "Bit grumpy – they don't like the cold, y'know."

As he slides one bowl across the table towards me, he sinks into a wooden stool. Starving, I take a deep, grateful bite.

* * *

 **18:44 PM** – I drain the last remnants of Hagrid's stew from the bottom of my bowl.

"How're things up at the castle?" Hagrid asks, refilling my bowl without asking. "How's your brother? Don' see him much these days."

"Albus?" I smile thinly. "Oh he's fine. He's just been busy. With his _girlfriend_. Albus thinks it's a secret, but I know."

"Oh?" Beneath his beard, the corners of Hagrid's mouth twitch upwards. "S'pose it's best he stays away, then. I've had enough romance for one lifetime, trying to keep your aunt and uncle from tearing at each other's throats for six years." He raises a bushy-haired eyebrow. "You don' go in for all that yet, do yeh?"

Halfway through ramming more stew down my throat, I splutter a hasty denial.

"Wha – no!"

"Aye?" Hagrid leans forward, beetle-black eyes glinting mischievously. "So what I hear 'bout you an ol' Red-Eyes up there at the castle, tha's not-"

" _No_!" I exclaim, blushing furiously. "I – who told you that? Was it Hugo?"

Hagrid just grins, and after a moment, I sigh.

"Well, it's not true! Even if I – er – wanted to, he goes out with that Slytherin girl, Harper. I mean, I _think_ he does. I barely know him, really. I mean, we've talked a few times, but-"

Abruptly, I realise I'm babbling. Falling silent, I return to my stew.

"This is really good, by the way," I mumble between gulps. Across the table, Hagrid pulls something out of his mole-skin overcoat; after a second, I recognise it as today's _Daily Prophet._

"Tha' reminds me," he says, thrusting the newspaper towards me, already open at page eight. "Something concernin' yer Slytherin pal, thought yeh migh' want to see."

Glancing at the _Prophet_ , I read the news today. "Oh boy," I murmur, pulling the article closer. Another story by that Selwyn cow. _YOU-KNOW-TWO BRAWLS, JINXES OTHER STUDENTS_. A sub-headline promises 'exclusive interviews with traumatised students'. "I can't believe they're still doing this. Didn't Dad talk to them?"

Hagrid shrugs. "From wha' I hear, they say they're just reportin' the news, and your Dad can't do nothing to stop them. Y'know, they _do_ say things about that boy-"

"They're not true," I interrupt heatedly.

"I'm not sayin' they are," Hagrid replies calmly, holding his massive hands up in a peace offering. "I don' know him, he never took my class. I'm just sayin'."

"Sorry," I mutter, scooping up the last of my stew and gulping it hungrily. "I just – just thought that people would be over it by now. Tom. It's been years."

Hagrid gives a brief, sympathetic sigh then, seizing my bowl in one massive hand, climbs to his feet.

"Can I tempt yeh with a rock cake?"

* * *

 **20:01 PM** – Speak of the devil. As I head back up towards Gryffindor Tower, belly full of Hagrid's warming stew, my path takes me past the library's open double doors. Inside, clustered together in the candlelit half-light, are the Gobstones Club, a few seventh-years I don't know, their noses buried in ponderous old tomes, and – slouched in a nearby, half-hidden alcove, his scarlet, snake-like irises tracing a relentless path across the pages before him-

"Tom?" I ask, my tone pleasantly surprised. His eyes flit from the dusty old pages before him to me, standing in the library doorway in my sodden robes, broomstick clutched in hand; Tom gives an uncertain half-wave of recognition.

"You still studying?" I ask brightly, stepping forward into the library. My footsteps _squidge_ loudly with every step. As I slide into a seat opposite Tom in his shadowed alcove, his face flickers reluctantly, uncertainly, into a wry little half-smile.

"Some extra-curricular research," he explains quietly. Glancing pointedly at my drenched robes, and the darkened-red hair clinging to my skin, his crimson eyes crinkle in amusement. "You're very wet," he points out.

"Qu-Quidditch practice," I explain with an ill-disguised shiver.

"I could help you," he says eagerly, rapidly flipping through the pages of the book that lies open before him. "There's this spell I've been wanting to try out – here," he finishes, pointing at the nearest page with a long, pale finger. "Can I?"

"Er…" I trail off hesitantly. "I don't know…this book isn't called Moste Eville Curses, or something?"

"No, it's Charms And Curses Of The Fourteenth Century."

As he slips his wand out of his pocket onto the table, he flashes me an innocent, reassuring smile, and I nod. Tom twirls his wand, and a hot, dry rush of air blasts me in the face.

"B-better," I say, surprised, examining my suddenly-toasty-warm robes. "Thanks."

He grins at my reaction.

"It's nothing."

* * *

 **22:38 PM** – With a tired, relieved sigh, and the creaking of joints, I sink into bed. As I snap the four-poster curtains shut, I notice the rest of the dormitory is already asleep. So that's my day, I suppose. I don't know what part of this was Muggle Studies exactly, but hopefully the professor will like it.


	10. Christmas

_Christmas_

 **(Some of this stuff is so, so bad. These sections of the story were written a long time ago. Basically the more recent chapters benefit from me being a better writer, and the earlier chapters benefit from me getting to them in my attempts at total rewrites. I never make it this far.)**

* * *

In the grand, gloomy sitting room of Malfoy Manor, Draco Malfoy paced nervously back and forth. To his right, as he strode across the Puffskein-fur rug, a fire flickered in a tall, ornately-carved hearth. To his left, a row of finely-worked glass windows revealed a view of the grounds of Malfoy Manor, and beyond that, a purplish sky. It was rapidly fading to black. Inside, taking a seat in the finely-upholstered leather armchair that had been his father's before him, Draco Malfoy poured himself a brandy and waited in silence.

It was half an hour before he heard it; the tell-tale rumble of wheels on gravel. Draco rose to his feet and strode towards the entrance hall and the grand doorway beyond. He heard the dull screech as the car ground to a halt, then muffled voices. As footsteps approached the front door of Malfoy Manor, Draco pulled the door open.

"Astoria!" he called warmly, embracing his brunette wife as she ascended the front steps, as elegant as the white-feathered peacocks that - even at Christmas - wandered the distant grounds of Malfoy Manor. As Astoria shifted slightly to plant a soft peck on her husband's cheek, Draco glanced over her shoulder. Beyond, in the process of removing his suitcase from the car's trunk, was his son. Draco in miniature, fifteen years old, Scorpius turned away from the car and met his father's eyes for the first time.

"Scorpius," Draco called in greeting, releasing Astoria to stride forward and shake his son's hand warmly. "It's good to see you. Let me get that."

With a deft flick of Draco's wand, Scorpius' suitcase rose out of the fifteen year old's hands into the air and, together, the Malfoy family went inside. Behind them, the heavy blackened-oak front doors swung shut.

* * *

From the front steps of Hogwarts, Neville watched. Below him, the Thestral-carriages trundled on their way, laden with students, off towards Hogsmeade and after that, the Hogwarts Express, waiting to ferry the students back to their families for the Christmas holidays. Those that had families, that was. Soon, Neville would be returning to London, to Hannah and the Leaky Cauldron, and their little flat above that old pub. As he watched, the last of the carriages were disappearing into the pine forests that blanketed the horizon. Each carriage was black, and open-topped, and pulled by the strange skeletal-winged creatures called Thestrals. Neville could see them; sometimes, he wondered which of his students could. He wondered sometimes if Tom Riddle could.

"Professor Longbottom."

At the sound of the familiar voice - croaky, heavy with age, yet authoritative - Neville turned. As he expected, Professor McGonagall stood in the castle's open doorway. Though age had deepened her wrinkles and stooped her spine, the elderly Headmistress of Hogwarts still wore her pointed witch's hat, and her round-rimmed spectacles, and a formidable expression upon her face that immediately cowed even the boldest of students. "Before you leave," the Headmistress continued, descending the steps to join Neville in the winter sunshine, "I'd like to speak to you, Neville."

"Of course, Headmistress," he said. "What is it?"

The Headmistress took a few seconds before replying. Her steely-grey gaze was fixed on the distant horizon, where the last carriageful of students was finally fading into the trees, a tiny black speck in the distance. Finally, her face fixed in a grim, reluctant mask, she spoke. "The board of governors have expressed concerns about the Riddle boy," she said. "Well, you've seen these stories in the press. They say he's fighting with other students - that he's out of control. I don't know where they get their stories from, or if any of it is even true, but the governors are worried. You teach him, Neville. How is he?"

"He's..." a number of possible answers occurred to Neville. Tom Riddle was polite. Talented. Charming, in his own quiet way. But, in the end, there was only one answer he could honestly give. "He's powerful."

* * *

"Big, aren't they?" Ron remarked as Albus, Lily, Hugo and Rose stepped off the Hogwarts Express. Spotting their parents - minus Ginny, working on some big sports story at the _Prophet_ offices - the children made their way through the crowd towards them. Albus and Rose, sitting their O.W.L.s this year, had big heavy book-bags slung over their shoulder. Their faces seemed rather gloomy at the prospect of studying over Christmas. Lily and Hugo on the other hand, walking behind their older siblings, were positively bouncing; no doubt eagerly discussing the winter holiday to come.

"Too big," Harry agreed, waving to his daughter as she raised a mittened hand in greeting. Most of Lily's lower face was hidden behind a knitted scarf her Grandma Molly had given her, but her pale cheeks were flushed with cold. "They won't fit in the car soon."

"They'll have their own cars soon," said Hermione. "I can't believe it's only three more years until Hugo and Lily finish school."

"Yeah," Ron added as the children drew near through the thick crowds, "only three years 'till they stop mooching off us and have to get a job."

"What was that?" Rose asked lightly, stepping between a pair of first-year Slytherin twins to join her parents and uncle by the platform wall.

"Just saying how good it is to see you," Ron said hastily, stepping forward to hug his red-haired daughter.

"Sure you were," was Rose's muffled reply. Behind Rose and Ron, the other children stepped from the smoke; Albus, a fifth-year student now, still the spitting image of Harry; Hugo, red-haired and slender, moving now to embrace his mother; Lily, wrapped up against the cold like a little ginger bear. Together, they left the station. Outside, on the streets of London, snow was falling.

* * *

"Scorpius." Outside the ornate glass windows of the sitting room of Malfoy Manor, the sun had long since set. Draco sat in his armchair by the crackling fire; opposite him, Scorpius sprawled on a bottle-green leather couch, nose buried in one of his school books. Astoria had retired upstairs to bed some time ago. It was Draco who had spoken. Slowly, his son set his book aside, and turned to face his father. He knew what was coming. "Your letters," Draco prompted.

Scorpius didn't reply; he just stared coldly back at his father. Draco leaned forward in his armchair, his expression urgent. "I asked you to keep me informed, Scorpius," he said icily. "Your last few letters have barely mentioned him. You're supposed to be watching the boy. I shouldn't have to find out he's been fighting from Elizabeth bloody Selwyn! You're his best friend! These stories in the _Prophet_ , the rumours, the board of governors - I _need_ to know what's going on. This is a critical time to-"

"I've told you already, Father," Scorpius interrupted coldly. "I don't want to do it anymore. I've done everything you've asked. I've befriended him, I've kept an eye on him, I've reported every time he so much as sneezes. I'm tired of it. I've got O.W.L.s coming up, I should be concentrating on them, not on-" he mimicked his father's tone- "not on Tom bloody Riddle. From now on, if you want to know what he's doing, you can ask him yourself."

He made to rise to his feet. "You know I can't!" Draco snapped, so ferociously that Scorpius, surprised, returned to his seat. "Even as a Hogwarts governor, I don't know half of what goes on at Hogwarts. No one does - unless they're a member of Potter's gang. McGonagall, Longbottom, Slughorn, Shacklebolt...they're all in Potter's pocket. None of them are brave enough to do the _right thing_."

Scorpius snorted. They both knew what Scorpius thought of his father's idea of the _right thing_. "What's your point?" he asked in a bored voice.

"My point, Scorpius, is that you, me and a few loyal witches and wizards are all that stand between Tom Riddle and another age of terror."

"Dad, he's not-"

"And this time," Draco interrupted stormily, "we won't be able to rely on Harry Potter lucking his way out of trouble. The wizarding world will fall. You, me, your mother - we'll all be killed. You realise that, don't you? Your friends, your classmates, your teachers - Riddle will _kill - them - all._ "

"Father..." Scorpius began - but under Draco's stony, relentless gaze, the fifteen year-old relented. "Okay," he sighed weakly. "Sorry. I - I'll do it. I'll keep writing letters."

"Good," said Draco calmly. "Remember, I want to know everything. Every angry word, every duel, every fistfight, every girlfriend - _everything_. We are not going to let Potter's sappiness cause the loss of everything we hold dear to this - this _monster_. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Father."

* * *

"See you tomorrow, then," Ron called as he, Hermione, Hugo and Rose turned towards their car, parked some distance away down the street in the opposite direction from Harry's.

"We'll have you all round," Harry promised; and then they parted. When he, Albus and Lily reached their car, Harry's son and daughter broke into an impromptu race for the front seat - which Albus won. "How're things, 'Lil?" Harry called, glancing into the rear-view mirror as he pulled the car into the evening traffic. "How's Tom?"

Albus rolled his eyes, and even Lily smiled - no doubt sick of answering the question after all these years. "He's fine, Dad," she assured him.

Harry nodded, though Lily's answer didn't quite assuage his doubts. "Good," he said. "Good."

The things he'd heard about Tom...if only Harry had done more. He and Hermione had been sure that the wizarding world would accept Tom Riddle. Harry had been sure that his family would accept Tom. But Tom and James always quarrelled, and as for the wizarding world...well, they weren't quite used to Tom yet. Maybe, one day, when Tom left Hogwarts, got a normal job and settled down, it would stop.

Maybe it never would.

* * *

Zacharias Smith was slightly drunk. Not that there was anything wrong with that. He had finished work at the Ministry for the day – Zacharias worked an uninteresting, pen-pushing job in an uninteresting, pen-pushing sub-department of the Ministry of Magic – and, like millions of others across the country, Zacharias had gone, with his co-workers, for a pint. Well, a pint or three. They sat in a dusty, dirty little London pub, Zacharias and half a dozen others; Ernie Macmillan was one of them.

Ernie was speaking now. The topic of discussion was one of the stories the _Daily Prophet_ had featured that day; an interview from an unnamed member of the Slytherin Quidditch team, who claimed that Tom Riddle had savagely attacked him after the defeat to Gryffindor a month previous.

"I saw him once, you know," Ernie was saying. "It was the day they – _hic_ – brought him before the Wizengamot. I saw Harry Potter taking him down. He looked right at me."

"Are his eyes really…" asked one of their drinking companions, Sarah, her eyes wide.

"Bright red," Ernie confirmed. "And narrow, like a snake's. Just like You-Know-Who."

There was a moment's quiet as Zacharias' and Ernie's co-workers – mostly junior interns, too young to remember You-Know-Who – sat in awed silence.

"I always said they should have just thrown him back into the sea," Zacharias interjected into the silence. "Put him back where they found him. He's not natural."

The drinking party, Ernie included, nodded in agreement.

* * *

"What can we do?"

Professor McGonagall didn't reply.

"Do we _need_ to do anything?" Neville prompted.

"I – I don't know, Neville." Neville had rarely heard the Headmistress so uncertain. "What can we do? Just…wait."

"Just wait," Neville echoed. In the distance, the last carriages had disappeared from sight.

* * *

"Tom."

He lay, sprawled casually, on one of the long, padded couches that littered the Slytherin common-room floor. The common room was always sparsely occupied at Christmas; in a distant corner, a few diminutive first-years spoke in furtive whispers while, upstairs, the sounds of the distant, ongoing party in the seventh-year dormitory drifted occasionally down to Tom. Tom didn't mind the quiet; it allowed him to concentrate on his reading, and his research, and his magic.

There were still some distractions, however, and some were more attractive than others. Hearing the familiarly husky, feminine voice, Tom glanced over his shoulder as Harper, descending the black-stone stairs that led upwards to the castle's corridors, crossed the common-room towards him. Underneath her billowing robes, she wore jeans, and a faded old sweater, emblazoned across the chest with the emblem of Slytherin. Her curly, raven-black hair fell casually, prettily, past her shoulders. Usually, Tom largely ignored his Slytherin acquaintances, whether it was the smirking superiority of Scorpius, Nott's cool sarcasm, or Harper's fawning awe, but today - perhaps it was just the tedium of the day, a drizzly, dreary nothingness of a Wednesday, or the dryness of Charms And Curses Of The Sixteenth Century's prose - but Tom was very pleased to see her.

"I'm bored," Harper pouted, sinking onto the opposite end of the couch on which Tom lay. In one graceful movement, she swung her feet off the floor, and into Tom's lap. "Let's do something."

"I thought you were going home for Christmas, Harp," Tom replied, snapping his book shut.

"Nope." Harper's face momentarily darkened. "My Dad's being an idiot again, so..." She forced a smile. "Here I am."

"Here we are," Tom echoed. "What do you want to do?"


	11. Spring

_Spring_

* * *

It was a hot spring day. The lake, sparkling in the sunshine, was surrounded by students. Some were enjoying a last-minute respite before the exams started, be it O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s. A courageous few had braved the lake's waters which, while shallow, were notoriously cold even at this time of year - not to mention the always-lurking giant squid. Others, like Tom and his friends - Scorpius, Nott and Harper - were just enjoying the weather while it lasted. They whiled away the day happily in the shade of a tall old pine tree, chatting, discussing the summer to come, and laughing at the already-panicking fifth-years. Well, three of them did. Scorpius was taking his O.W.L.s this year too.

Exam madness, Nott called it. The clammy hands, the wide bloodshot eyes, the frantic, manic revising; it happened every year. Today, they'd made a game - Scorpius and Nott's idea, of course - of predicting which of the over-stressed, over-worked fifth years would be the first to crack beneath the pressure. Scorpius, never one to let a family grudge die easily, predicted Albus Potter as the first to snap. Nott, following a similar rationale of selecting the Gryffindor student he hated the most, plumped for Rose Weasley. "Little Miss Perfect?" Scorpius laughed. "No way."

Nott sneered back at the older blond-haired boy. "You fancy her or something?"

Before Scorpius could reply angrily to the contrary, Tom drew their attention with a nod over his shoulder. "It'll be her," he said, indicating a passing Hufflepuff girl as she sobbed into a frilly pink handkerchief. He didn't really enjoy these sort of games, but he couldn't be bothered with arguing on a day like this.

Scorpius followed Tom's gaze, nodding thoughtfully. "You think? Care to make it interesting?" he offered.

"I don't have any money," Tom reminded him dryly.

"Oh." Scorpius grinned. "You know, we should really get you a job. Harp, your dad runs that shop just off Diagon Alley, right? How about in there?"

"I don't think the orphanage would like that," Tom said quickly. "Besides, I don't think I'm very employable. You know, universally hated and all of that."

"I'd employ you," Harper commented as she lay on the grass beside him.

"Yeah," Nott added. "Come round to my house this summer, you can do my chores for me. I'll give you a few Sickles."

"I'll pass, thanks." Tom tossed a stone, and it landed twenty feet into the lake with a soft splash. "Maybe I should just rob a bank."

Nott grinned at that. "You probably could."

"Sadly," Tom sighed sarcastically, "the criminal life isn't for me."

"A shame," Scorpius said. "It's in your blood."

* * *

"Let's see your wand movements," Professor Flitwick called in his strange, squeaky voice. Dutifully, the rest of the class wiggled their wands in a complicated motion. Half-heartedly, a second later, Tom followed. Lost in his thoughts, his attention was elsewhere; and besides, he already knew the Summoning Charm. He'd learnt _that_ in second year. "Now say the words," Flitwick continued, raising his wand arm into the air. Even outstretched, the man was still remarkably tiny. Tom wondered briefly if the elderly Professor had been on the wrong end of a Shrinking Charm at some point. " _Accio_ ," Flitwick called, loudly and clearly.

Thirty students, all packed into the crowded, cluttered Charms classroom, waved their wands, and muttered the words, but only half their respective cushions obliged in soaring across the room. _Accio_ , Tom thought lazily, and his frilly embroidered-pink cushion leapt into the air with the others. Harper's did, too, and Lily's; Nott's stayed resolutely still. Tom's two friends had been seated on the other side of the classroom by the cruelties of the alphabetical-seating system; however, the system found Tom sitting next to Lily, so he couldn't really complain.

Beside him, as Tom's cushion settled gently onto the tabletop, Lily nudged him with her elbow. "Ow. What?" he asked.

"You didn't say the incantation," she pointed out. "I was - er - watching you."

"So?" he said, shrugging.

" _So_ you must have done it non-verbally. _So_ that's really advanced stuff. N.E.W.T. stuff."

Again, Tom shrugged. "It just sort of - comes naturally to me. Look." Pointing his wand at the pink cushion before him, Tom thought _Repulso_! The cushion flew across the room like a rocket, almost striking Flitwick in the back of the head. "I shouldn't know that charm, but I just sort of _do._ I don't know how. I've always known things I shouldn't. Remembered things I-"

Abruptly, he realised he might have said a bit too much. Lily was giving him a look that was almost...admiring? Fearful? Whatever her expression was, after a moment or two it faded to a wry grin. "Well, I wish it came naturally to _me._ Instead," she sighed, reopening her copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four_ , "I'll have to do it the long way."

Tom was about to reply - but then someone tapped him on the back. Turning, he saw Hugo Weasley, sitting with two Gryffindor boys Tom didn't know, and for some intuitive reason Tom didn't like the expressions on their faces. His intuition was confirmed a second later. "Hey, freak," said Hugo, staring at Tom - at his pale skin, his black hair, his crimson slitted eyes. "Yeah, you." Reaching into the inner pockets of his robes, Hugo pulled out a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. "Seen this?"

Lily tensed beside Tom as, smirking, Hugo tossed the newspaper towards Tom. Catching it against his chest, he read the banner headline there; _STUDENTS CLAIM RIDDLE BOY UNSTABLE._ An Elizabeth Selwyn story. Hugo's face was expectant, as were his two friends'; their faces fell when Tom simply smiled thinly and tossed the newspaper back towards them. "Sorry to disappoint," he said coolly. "Actually, I'm a very mellow person."

Scowling, the red-haired teen turned to Lily, watching events unfold with her arms crossed angrily. "Why are you talking to this freak, Lily?" he demanded. "Come back here, sit with us."

"We'll squeeze up," leered one of his friends.

"Get lost, Hugo," Lily told him firmly. Grabbing Tom's arm, she turned him firmly forward, away from the obviously-disappointed Gryffindor boys. "Don't listen to them, Tom, they're just jealous."

Privately, Tom greatly doubted that, but he appreciated it. He amused himself - and Lily - for the rest of the hour by surreptitiously casting an Impediment Jinx on Hugo's cushion every time the red-haired teen tried to Summon it towards him. Afterwards they went to the library, to their own half-hidden little alcove, and chatted and studied and laughed for hours. All was well.


	12. The Death Eaters

It was summer again. Diagon Alley was resplendent in the sunlight, a sparkling, hectic explosion of light and life. In the distance, the white-granite stones of Gringotts gleamed. Tom had been in there yesterday for the first time, opening his very own bank account. He'd been with Harry Potter. Together, they'd walked through those forbidding doors, and into the grand, chandelier-lit main hall, lined on all sides with goblins. Strange little creatures; Tom had seen them before, but only glimpses, snatched in the hazy half-light of the Leaky Cauldron, or from an orphanage window. Never up close, until now.

Tom had been eager to descend into Gringotts' fabled chasms, but first, there was a mountain of paperwork to wade through. Most of it seemed to concern the (to Tom, unimportant) details regarding the Gringotts vault of the late Lord Voldemort, Tom's mysterious, vaguely-related forebear. The goblins insisted that Lord Voldemort's account should pass to Tom, and that Tom should henceforth take up occupancy of vault three-hundred and twenty-one. Potter, on the other hand, argued that Tom was of no relation to Lord Voldemort, and that the goblins of Gringotts should open a new account in Tom's name. As Lord Voldemort's bank vault held only thirteen Sickles and three Knuts, Tom found this all extremely boring.

There was no winning an argument with goblins, and – eventually – Potter relented. The unlikely pair – accompanied by yet another goblin – descended into the depths of Gringotts. Tom's account was a dusty, cobwebbed affair, inhabited only by a disappointingly-small pile of silver-and-bronze coins. To get Tom started, Potter had given him a hundred golden Galleons from his own vault. Leaving Gringotts, the man with the lightning scar had bought Tom dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, put up the black-haired boy in a cushy, well-catered room for the few days until the new Hogwarts term began, then said his farewells.

That evening, Tom had wandered the streets, his pockets weighed down with gold for the first time in his life. He'd bought a new pewter cauldron, a few quills, half a dozen intriguing spell-books, and all the other items on his Hogwarts list, then – pausing briefly to peruse the shelves of an intriguing-looking shop named Borgin & Burkes, which he had the strangest feeling he had visited before – he'd returned to his room. With a book in his hands, he'd drifted off to sleep. Now, he sat outside, in the sunshine, nursing a Butterbeer and watching the world go by. Two days from now, he'd be heading back to Hogwarts for his fifth year. O.W.L.s. Tom wasn't particularly worried.

Down Diagon Alley, Tom could see all manner of shops; Madam Malkins, Magical Menagerie, the stomach-churningly orange storefront of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes… Tom had visited only a fraction. Tomorrow, he would visit more – perhaps even stray further into Knockturn Alley. Now, though, it was something a lot closer that caught his attention; a pretty red-haired girl, waving in his direction as she picked a path through the parasols, tables and chairs that littered the ice-cream parlour's outdoor forecourt.

"Hi," Lily said happily, sliding into a seat opposite Tom. "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Lily?" said Tom, pleasantly surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"My dad told me you were down here on your own, so…" Lily shrugged, smiling. "I thought I'd pay you a visit. I took the Knight Bus. Anyway…how are you?" She glanced pointedly around, at the crowds passing by. "Anyone giving you any trouble?"

Tom snorted.

"You sound like my grandmother." He smiled sardonically. "If I had one, that is."

"I mean it," Lily prodded stubbornly. "No one – you know…"

"No," he reassured her. "I mean, I still get the odd weird look, but I think people are getting over it. I invented this new spell, as well, which helps."

Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, Tom pulled out his yew-wood wand. Before Lily could say anything, he pointed it at his face. With a sudden, indistinct shimmer, his scarlet eyes faded to blue, the irises reshaping to something approaching a normal size. Lily gasped.

"I haven't really used it yet," Tom continued, returning his eyes to normal with another flick of his wand. "Maybe the next time I'm in the Muggle world. Do you like it?"

"I…" For some reason, Lily blushed. "I – er – think your eyes are fine as they are, Tom." Abruptly, she glanced at Tom's near-empty Butterbeer. "Shall I get us some drinks?"

"I'll get them," Tom said quickly, lurching to his feet. "I mean, I _am_ rich now."

* * *

After finishing their drinks, Tom and Lily wandered the streets of Diagon Alley for a few happy hours. It was mid-afternoon, as they emerged from Magical Menagerie, Lily holding armfuls of strange cat-grooming equipment, Tom's pockets considerably lighter, that he saw Scorpius. The teen with white-blonde hair was dashing up Diagon Alley towards Tom, his face flushed, his expression manic.

"Scorpius?" Tom called curiously, as the sixteen year-old fought through the crowds towards him. "What's wrong?"

A second later, Scorpius skidded to a halt before Tom and Lily, breathing heavily. Tom hurried forward to help his friend, who looked almost ready to collapse; Lily, too, grabbed Scorpius' other arm and, together, they steadied him.

"It's – _Harper_ ," Scorpius wheezed between deep, ragged breaths. "Got – mugged – up near Knockturn Alley – _needs your help_ …"

"Where?" Tom demanded.

"I'll-" Scorpius paused for a moment, and he seemed to regain some of his composure. Around the three Hogwarts students, some passers-by were beginning to stare. "I'll take you to her."

His heart thumping rapidly, Tom turned to Lily. "Lily, you should go home-"

"I'm coming with you," she immediately insisted.

" _No!_ " Scorpius said with surprising force. "You can't come, Potter."

"Why not?" Lily exclaimed, staring angrily up at the much-taller teen. Scorpius sneered back.

"We don't need _your_ help." He turned back to Tom. "We need to go, Tom, _now_!"

Tom took one step before Lily seized his arm.

"I'm coming too," she told him heatedly.

Scorpius, scowling, seemed to consider this for a moment – then, reluctantly, he nodded.

"Fine, Potter. Just don't slow us down." He turned away. "Let's go."

And then they ran. Past Gringotts and Flourish & Blotts, past Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and Eeylops Owl Emporium, past all the shoppers that stopped, gaped and gasped as Scorpius Malfoy, Lily Potter and a small, strange boy with pale skin and crimson eyes sprinted past. Scorpius led the way towards Knockturn Alley, ducking and weaving a path through the packed streets. Tom was next, and then Lily, her newly-purchased cat equipment clattering loudly in her hands as they ran.

At the entrance to Knockturn Alley, Scorpius abruptly halted. For a second, he looked upwards, as if he had seen something on the nearby rooftops – but then he turned to Tom, his face etched with urgency.

"She's in a little alley, just through here. Hurry!"

Together, they ducked through the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Here, the air was thick with black, acrid smoke, and sinister-looking characters seemed to lurk behind every corner. Not three steps in, a witch with no nose thrust a tray laden with what looked suspiciously like human organs towards the three.

"I've never been in here before," Lily muttered uneasily as Scorpius brushed aside the witch.

"Let's just get Harper and get out," Tom replied quickly. A few steps ahead, Scorpius had stopped. Turning towards Tom, he pointed at a gashed opening in the cobbled alley-walls, about twenty feet ahead of the three on the left.

"In there," Scorpius said unnecessarily. "C'mon."

They hurried forward. Ten feet left – Tom drew his wand – five feet – and then they had turned the corner. Scorpius, leading the way, stopped dead. There was nothing there. No Harper, just a dank, sodden alley-way, barely three feet wide, snaking off into the distance.

"I – I don't get it," Scorpius muttered uncertainly.

Groaning, Tom pushed past Scorpius, taking a few steps further into the alleyway. It was dark here; the walls seemed, claustrophobically, to lean in from both sides, snuffing out the far-above light before it ever reached the ground. Baffled, Tom turned back to Scorpius. The teen's pale-grey eyes met Tom's scarlet slits.

"Scorpius-"

It was at that moment that Scorpius' eyes flitted over Tom's right shoulder. Lily shrieked, and Tom whirled around to see six figures appear from thin-air. All wore black, full-length robes, their faces obscured by masks in the form of a skull. Their wands were drawn.

" _Stupefy_!" they yelled in unison.

" _Protego_!"

The bright-red Stunning Spells crashed off Tom's hasty Shield Charm, but the masked figures were advancing, casting curses all the time.

" _Protego! Protego!"_ he shouted as, again and again, his Shield Charm threatened to wink out of existence.

Dimly, out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Lily attempt to dash forward to help him – but Scorpius held her back. Grateful to his friend, Tom backed away frantically towards the mouth of the alley-way, his arms buckling beneath the barrage of curses he was deflecting. He couldn't think – couldn't find a spell to fend the attackers off, though surely he knew one –

Behind him, Scorpius was mere feet away. Lily was still struggling, kicking and scratching in her attempts to help Tom.

" _Tom_!" she screamed.

"Scorpius!" Tom yelled over his shoulder. "Get her out of here-"

In the corner of his eye, Tom saw Scorpius release Lily, throwing her to the ground with vicious strength. Too late, Tom half-turned. A blur of movement, a glint of steel-

Too late.

The knife took him in the back.


	13. The Shadow

_The Shadow_

* * *

"Ministry of Magic."

As Harry threw down a fistful of Floo powder, and spoke the words, green flames erupted into life. In the blink of an eye he was whisked away, the familiar sights and smells of the Potter kitchen dissolving into a wild, disorientating blur of flames and fireplaces. The black-stone walls of the Ministry of Magic swam into view before Harry - and, stooping slightly to avoid thumping his head on the fireplace's low brim, Harry stepped out.

Even at this early hour, the Ministry was busy. Uniformed witches and wizards were everywhere; some wore the midnight-blue robes of Magical Maintenance, others the plain, neatly-trimmed black robes of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A few, like Harry, were plain-clothed, their occupations denoted only by the gleaming silver ' _Auror_ ' badges they wore on their chest. As Harry joined the flow of employees steadily shuffling towards the grand Atrium, he even saw an Unspeakable skulking through the crowd, an old man with tufty-white hair; no doubt off to the Department of Mysteries to conduct some strange experiment. Harry was one of the most senior members of the Ministry, yet even he knew only half of what went on in that Department.

Harry entered the nearest lift, squeezing in between a pair of loudly-chatting International Magical Co-operation witches who continued their conversation as if he weren't even there. With a quiet _whoosh_ , the golden-painted doors slid shut, and the lift lurched into life. It stopped three times before the lift reached Level Two, headquarters of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Stepping out, Harry made a beeline for the Auror Office, nodding in greeting every so often to familiar faces here and there. He was followed by a handful of neatly-folded paper planes, which dived and swooped and climbed above Harry's head as he walked. As he stepped into the narrow, closed-in cubicles of the Auror Office, Harry was privately thankful that they weren't owls.

The Auror Office was always busy. Even though, outside the enchanted, Magical Maintenance-controlled windows, the sky was still darkened, the office was abuzz with life. At one cubicle, Natalie McDonald was interviewing a droopy-eyed witness. At another, a familiar mop of jet-black hair rested upon a mountain of paperwork, steadily rising and falling in the unmistakable pattern of sleep. His face twitching indecisively between a frown and a grin, Harry approached his son's desk.

"James," he said lightly, shaking the young man's shoulder, and slowly, James stirred. Groaning tiredly, Harry's eldest son jerked upright, a trickle of drool clinging determinedly to his chin.

"Er - hi, Dad," James said sheepishly. He wiped the drool away with his sleeve. "You're in early..."

Fighting back a grin, Harry glanced at James's tottering tower of paperwork. "Busy night?" he enquired.

"Yeah." James groaned. "The Zabini appeal. It goes to court tomorrow, and higher-ups suddenly decided they wanted more evidence, so..." James shrugged helplessly. "I spent all night going through these old reports."

"Find anything?"

"A few things here and there, yeah. It'll have to do. Oh, by the way," James added, with the air of having suddenly remembered something, "Aunt Hermione was in here earlier. She left something in your office."

Harry glanced to his right, where his modest office waited for him behind a pane of sheet-glass. "Good work, James," he said, patting his son on the shoulder affectionately. "Get some sleep." Turning away, Harry headed towards his office.

* * *

Stifling a yawn, James watched his father go. Dad was right; it was time to get some sleep. Blaise Zabini's appeal could wait - not that it had any chance of succeeding, anyway. What had the man expected, attacking Riddle in broad daylight in the middle of Knockturn Alley? Shaking his head at the idiocy of it, James slid a fresh sheet of paper from the pile atop his desk, then hastily scribbled a note; _CASE REPORTS ON MY DESK. I MARKED THE SECTIONS YOU MIGHT FIND USEFUL_. James signed the note, scribbled the delivery address, then folded the paper neatly into the shape of a paper plane. It swept up into the air, and James watched it dive and loop and swerve until it was out of sight.

Only then did he stand up and stretch his weary arms. James turned on the spot - and then, with a loud _pop_ , he was gone, lost to his co-workers in the claustrophobia of Apparition. It was considered rude to Apparate from the office, but James was too tired to care. One second passed, as James was squeezed like a tube of tooth-paste, two seconds - and then he emerged, landing softly in the living room of the poky little London apartment he and Elizabeth shared. She wasn't here just now, James's journalist girlfriend, though her notes were scattered all over the place. Her work at the _Prophet_ often demanded Elizabeth's attention beyond usual working hours.

James yawned, and kicked off his shoes. _Just a quick nap_ , he told himself, stepping through into the bedroom and sinking onto the double-bed he and Elizabeth shared. As he sat, the mattress's springs screamed. The clock beside the bed told James it was only seven o'clock in the morning. He'd sleep for a few hours, then head back into the office. Yes, that was what he would do. Falling backwards exhaustedly onto the pillows, James closed his eyes.

* * *

Harry's desk was mercifully clear this morning. There were only a few old case reports, to be signed and countersigned, in his intray, he noticed as he sank into his chair - those and, for some strange reason, a freshly-pressed edition of _The Quibbler_. There was a note attached to _The Quibbler_ 's lurid front-pages with Spellotape; Harry recognised Hermione's florid, cramped handwriting immediately. _Thought you might like Luna's editorial_ , the note read. _Don't give up hope. P.S. Remember dinner tonight. Ron's doing fish._

With a thin smile, Harry set the note aside. Beneath, _The Quibbler_ waited, and the smile froze on Harry's face. The front page of the always-strange magazine was given over to a stylised drawing; Harry thought he recognised Luna's handiwork. In jagged black pencil it depicted a frightened black-haired child, cowering in the shadow of an unseen knife-wielding attacker. The child's eyes, crude narrow slits, were pencilled in with crimson. Beneath the drawing, scrawled in dripping blood-red handwriting, were the words _18 Months On - With A Foreword By Luna Scamander_.

With grim curiosity, Harry flicked open _The Quibbler's_ pages. He picked out a sentence at random; _eighteen months on from the attack, it has become clear that, while the attack was met publicly with condemnation, in private it was met by the majority of the wizarding world with sighs of relief. While the culprits may have been jailed_ -

Heart suddenly hammering, Harry snapped the magazine shut. He decided he couldn't face the article. Setting the magazine aside, he began signing and countersigning case reports, trying his best to ignore the gnawing disquiet within him.

* * *

That night, for the first time in an eternity, Tom dreamt. It was an old dream. The oldest dream.

He had been drowning in the all-consuming blackness for so long. Now, the dark began to settle into surroundings, and Tom could breathe again. He stood on a desolate purple moor, thin stalks of heather-grass stretching off to the horizon in every direction. The ground was soft, and mossy. The sky was a bleak stormy-grey. In the distance, Tom could see a craggy hill-top. There was something atop the hillside's jutting rock, though Tom couldn't make it out at this distance; from here, it was a mere black speck against the sky. Some primitive, instinctive part of Tom urged him to walk towards the mysterious blackness. He had to know what it was.

And so he walked. He couldn't say how _long_ he walked; days, months, years, the walk was nothing compared to what had come before. He walked, and in the distance, the black speck swelled, and swelled, and swelled. He reached the foot of the craggy hill-top, and began to climb, and still he could not make out what the black speck was. It was _some_ sort of structure, rising seemingly organically from the very ground. He climbed faster and faster now.

He could _feel_ the black speck, deep within his core, giving him strength, urging him on. _Faster_ , it whispered in a high, cold voice, and when Tom reached the top of the hill, climbing a rise of loose and crumbly slate-stone, he saw it. A tower. Twisted, monstrous, a smooth volcanic-black, though rivulets of crimson pulsed beneath the tower's walls. Cautiously, he approached, the deep gnawing yearning within him growing ever-stronger as he closed the distance.

A foot away from the tower's base, Tom stopped. He looked up, following the tower's twisting walls to their peak, four hundred feet above his head. The tower seemed to have no entrance, but instinctively Tom knew what to do. He reached out a finger. The tower's stone was cold, and sharp; a prick of crimson blood dropped from Tom's outstretched finger to the stony floor below. At Tom's touch, the stone melted away, revealing a black chasm.

As Tom stepped inside, the lamps flickered on, casting an eerie emerald-green light over the stairs cut into the stone. Up and up the stairs went, and Tom followed. There were no windows, no natural light - just the stairs, cut from the same rough-stone of the tower walls, and the jewelled snakes inlaid upon the walls. It was the same pattern, over and over again, Tom noticed; a three-headed snake. At one end of the creature, emerald eyes glittered from the snake's largest head. From there, a thick muscular body twisted and tapered until - at the point where the snake's slender body should have ended in a tail - the body tapered into two smaller snakes, one with eyes of icy sapphires, the other gleaming-red rubies.

Tom walked upwards for some time. He wasn't sure how long. For a while, he counted the steps as he climbed, but he lost count at two-thousand and twenty-three. After an eternity, he emerged from the gloomy stairs into a dimly-lit high-ceilinged chamber. The circular chamber was empty but for a small statuette, carved in limestone, four feet high, set on a plinth in the centre of the room. Tom approached it curiously. The statue depicted two snakes, entwined in an eternal embrace. One snake's eyes were rubies - the other pale-blue sapphires. With a long, pale finger, Tom touched the blue-eyed statue.

When Tom turned, he was there. The dark man. A man with hands like pale white spiders, and a nose as flat and shallow as a snake's. He had Tom's eyes, narrow, cat-like crimson slits, and the dark man wore long, ragged black robes that trailed behind him as he walked like leaves in a blustery wind. When he stared at Tom, as he did now, his expression was curious, thoughtful; unashamedly hungry.

The dark man called to him. His pale arms were spread wide, his expression questioning. Tom tried to call an answer, to tell the dark man he did not understand, but the words wouldn't come. The dark man opened his mouth. His lips stretched inhumanly wide as if, somehow, like a snake, the dark man had unhinged his jaw - and then Tom saw it. He saw it, and screamed.

It was a snake, green-scaled and colossal. It slithered from the dark man's mouth, coiling around his shoulders, teasing his skin with its slender two-forked tongue. Calmly, the dark man murmured to it, his words low hisses. The snake's slitted nostrils flared, and its yellow-lamp eyes flitted towards Tom. Uncoiling smoothly, unhurriedly, the snake slid down the dark man's body to the black-stone ground. Hissing softly, it slithered across the floor towards Tom.

He was rooted to the spot, helpless. The snake crept up his legs, coiling around his stomach - and for one terrified second, Tom thought he would be asphyxiated within the snake's grip - but then the snake uncoiled, and continued upwards, coming to a rest atop Tom's shoulders. When the snake spoke, its forked tongue tickled Tom's ear, and its words were in that strange language, Parseltongue, with which he had once impressed a red-haired girl in a pet shop a lifetime ago.

" _Who are you_?" it hissed.

" _Tom_ ," he replied rather nervously.

" _No_ ," the snake hissed. " _That name was given to you by them. Who are you_?"

Tom had no satisfactory answer. Across the room, the dark man's eyes were fixed on his, the man's head tilted curiously to the side. When the snake spoke, the dark man's lips moved. " _You are Lord Voldemort._ "

" _No._ " Of that, at least, Tom was sure. " _I'm not - not him_."

The dark man's crimson eyes narrowed. " _You are the heir of Slytherin._ "

Tom shook his head. " _I don't care about that_ ," he hissed in reply. " _I just want_ -"

" _Want what_?" the snake teased cruelly. " _To be loved? To be accepted? They will never accept you. They will never love you. You have no place in their world."_

Tom had no answer, and suddenly he found himself weeping. The words struck deep, and true. " _When you accept this_ ," the snake hissed, _"Come to the tower. You will know the way. I will wait._ "

* * *

In another world, a black-haired boy named Tom Riddle woke with a start. His heart was beating out of his chest, his throat was raw as sandpaper, and his lungs felt as if they had been filled with sand. For at least five minutes, all he could do was take deep, gulping breaths and stare up at the pristine-white ceiling. Slowly, he came back to life. Glancing from side to side, cold panic rising in his throat, Tom took in his surroundings. Where was he? He lay in a cold austere bed in a dimly-lit hospital ward. To his left, a middle-aged man with patchy-grey hair was snoring steadily. Every other bed in the ward was empty, and the only doorway was chained and padlocked.

As Tom sat up against his pillows, he felt a stab of pain in his left side, and cried out in agony. Looking beneath his bedclothes, he saw the faded, scarred remnants of an ugly knife-wound, and he remembered. He remembered the screaming, and the blood, and the betrayal, and again Tom heard the dark man's whisper; _you have no place in their world._ He had to get out of here. His attackers could be coming for him even now. Where was his wand?

Ignoring the violent jolt of pain in his left side, Tom slid out of bed. His atrophied legs crumpled beneath him, and as he fell to his knees he yelled in pain. Weakly, he grasped his bed-post with a skin-and-bone hand, yanking himself to a kneeling position on the tiled floor. He was dressed in a loose white hospital gown, and he was barefoot. Clothes could wait, however; he needed to find his wand. He rummaged frantically through his bed-side cabinet, tossing aside a half-eaten packet of Droobles, an old edition of the _Daily Prophet_ , and a faded, forgotten 'get well' card that crumpled to dust in his hand, but his wand was not there. Heart sinking, he turned away, rising to his feet on unsteady legs.

Outside, through the heavy-black curtains that lined the opposite wall, it was night, he saw. Tom hobbled across the tiled floor towards the locked door. With all his strength, he rattled the heavy padlock, again and again and again. "Let me out!" he shouted, his voice a cracked ruin. "Let me out! Let me-"

The door burst open inwards, and Tom was knocked to the floor. Looking up, his vision hazy and half-formed, he saw half a dozen robed figures enter the room. "No," he mumbled, desperately crawling away. "No-"

A firm hand grabbed his shoulder. Tom tensed, expecting any moment to feel a dagger driving through his ribs, or to see the green flash of the Killing Curse - but he didn't. Instead, turning as he lay helpless on the floor, he saw the bearded face of a kindly middle-aged wizard, dressed in the lime-green robes that befitted a Healer of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Tom felt himself being lifted into the air in the embrace of a Levitation Charm. As another Healer, wand extended, carried the black-haired boy back to his bed, the Healer with the honey-blonde beard walked beside him.

"Tom?" he asked softly, waving two fingers before Tom's eyes. "Tom?"

"I-" Tom took a moment to find his voice. When he spoke, his voice was a croak, and his throat was as dry as a desert. "I - who-"

"You're a little disorientated, Tom," the Healer explained, taking a seat at Tom's bedside as Tom was lowered back onto the white sheets and pillows. "You've been in a coma for quite some time."

A _coma_? For a crazy second, Tom searched around for a mirror, wondering if he was now an old man, wrinkled and balding; but when he found his reflection in a small bed-side mirror, he looked as he always did - just a little taller, a little thinner, and a little more ragged around the edges. "How - how long?"

The Healer placed a comforting hand on Tom's shoulder. "Perhaps you should rest-"

"Tell me," Tom ordered, throwing the bearded man's hand off. In the mirror, he noticed a sudden wild gleam had come to his crimson eyes.

"Eighteen months," the Healer admitted. "It's quite the miracle you're awake, actually, Tom."

Tom could say nothing. _Eighteen months!_ He - he-

"You won't mind if I ask you a few questions?" the Healer enquired, drawing Tom out of the swirling maelstrom of his thoughts. "It's standard protocol in cases like this."

Weakly, Tom nodded. "So - er, question number one, Tom," said the bearded man. "What is your date of birth?"

"I don't _have_ a date of birth," Tom snarled, taking out his sudden anger on the Healer. "They found me in a cave, remember? No birthday, no presents, no bloody cakes or parties."

For the first time, Tom noticed the cluster of nurses and Healers lingering at the foot of his bed, staring curiously at him. _Come to see the freak, no doubt._ Tom glared at them, and a pair of young nurses exchanged nervous looks, edging a step backwards from the foot of his bed. _You have no place in their world,_ the dark man whispered. _They will never accept you. I will, Tom._

"So - er - question number two, then," the Healer continued, oblivious. "Do you-"

"Where's my wand?" Tom interrupted suddenly. "I want it."

"It's ward policy to keep wands in a secure location," the Healer told Tom, with a sickeningly-false smile that was no doubt meant to be disarming. Reassuring. "But once we're certain you're quite alright, we'll get it returned to you as soon as possible. Okay, Tom?"

The Healer's wand dangled temptingly on his belt, well within Tom's reach. For a long moment, he contemplated snatching it. He could roll out of bed before anyone reacted. Fire off a few Stunners into the watching crowd at the foot of his bed, force the Healer to return his wand to him, take revenge on Scorpius and those that had done this to him...

"Okay," he eventually acquiesced. He suddenly felt very tired, and even the words were an effort.

"Good," said the Healer. "We'll keep you here for a few more days, Tom, until you've got your strength back. In the meantime-" the Healer tried to pat Tom affectionately on the shoulder, but the sixteen year-old boy shied away. "Get some sleep." He smiled. "You've had quite the ordeal."

"Okay," Tom mumbled again, rolling away from the Healer, too overcome by events to volunteer anything more. _Eighteen months_! He should be - he should be in sixth year now! He'd missed his O.W.L.s. And Lily... _Lily._ A horrible, horrible notion suddenly occurred to Tom. "You," he croaked. "Healer."

The bearded man turned back towards Tom, smiling politely. "Yes?"

"Lily Potter," said Tom. "Is she - is she alive?"

The Healer nodded, and that was enough for Tom. Turning away from the watching eyes, he squeezed his eyes shut.

He dreamt of the tower.


	14. Cross Words

_Cross Words_

* * *

The Ministry of Magic was abuzz with life this morning. As Harry stepped from the golden-framed fireplace into the Atrium proper, a nervous tension was palpable in the air. People didn't walk, or stroll, or gambol this morning; they scurried in packs, heads bowed low, gossiping with one another in low, hurried whispers. The _Daily Prophet_ was everywhere. People gawped at it as they walked, or had copies thrust beneath their nose by coworkers.

"What do you think'll happen?" Harry heard one blue-robed witch ask her friend. They were the two witches he had seen yesterday, who had loudly talked over Harry as he stood in the lift. "Do you - do you think he'll be _angry_?

"Wouldn't you be?" the other witch retorted. Middle-aged, portly, she shook her head with a smug, knowing air. "I always said this would happen, didn't I, Tracey? Ever since they found that boy, I said there was dark times coming, I told you..."

Their voices faded as Harry, growing ever-more curious, pushed on through the thick crowds towards the lifts. A black-robed man passed close by, and Harry twisted, trying to catch a glimpse of the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ the man held - but instead, he spied a woman with thick bushy-brown hair moving quickly through the crowds towards him.

"Harry!" Hermione called urgently, stepping past a burly blue-robed Magical Maintenance wizard to step to Harry's side in the centre of the Atrium. They stood on the edge of the grand old fountain; at the centre of the sparkling waters, the golden statues, man, woman and all manner of creature, stood as one. Hermione had a _Prophet_ clutched in her hand, and her face was pale.

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Harry asked.

She told him.

* * *

The patchy-haired man was chuckling. Not often, not consistently. But, every once in a while, the man in the bed to Tom's immediate left would laugh to himself. When he wasn't laughing, he was smiling, or grinning, or beaming - often at Tom. More often than not, Tom would return the patchy-haired man's affections with a dirty scowl, but he just kept on smiling. It was an ugly smile, one of broken yellow-brown teeth and slashed, oozing gums, but Tom soon found himself wishing that the patchy-haired man would share the joke.

Other than the patchy-haired man and a young nurse, the ward was empty. Set high in the wall opposite Tom was a row of grimy windows; outside, the world was bleak and grey. When Tom had been attacked, it was summer; now, it was a grim wild winter. Inside the ward, the only sounds to be heard were the occasional chuckles of the patchy-haired man, and the squeaking of the nurse's footsteps as she busied around the room, watering flowers, sweeping beneath beds, changing linens, making notes. She seemed to be going out of her way to avoid his eye.

"Nurse," Tom called, as she skirted past the foot of his bed for the fourth time. His voice was still a throaty rasp, though he had been drinking water like a fish since he awoke. The nurse he had called out to - a young woman, one of the ones he had so frightened last night, he recognised now - twitched at the sound of his voice. It was a small, unimportant spasm, but Tom noticed it, and it stung. _There is no place for you in their world._

"Yes?" she asked, pausing at the foot of his bed.

Tom beckoned her closer. Uneasily, reluctantly, she bowed her head towards his bedside. "That man over there," he whispered, jerking his head towards his patchy-haired companion, still grinning maniacally at nothing in particular. "What's his problem?"

The nurse, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, followed Tom's gaze. "Mr. Jones?" Her pretty face contorted in an uncertain frown. "He's addicted to Cheering Charms."

Tom laughed loudly at that. His patchy-haired friend soon joined him, guffawing loud and hard. The nurse did not laugh. "We're weaning him off them slowly," she said, straightening and stepping backwards away from Tom.

"How long's he been like that?"

"About eight months." When Tom asked no further questions, the nurse hurriedly turned away. "I'd best get back to my rounds," she mumbled. "The Healer will want to see me."

She scurried away, no doubt off to gossip with her nurse friends about her encounter with the monster Tom Riddle. Sighing tiredly, Tom plumped up his pillows and reached for his battered old copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , dated to sometime last year. It was still open at the puzzles page. He was still working his way through the cryptic crossword when a shadow fell over his bed. When he looked up, he saw a long-legged blonde woman, handsome, flowers in one hand, a freshly-pressed copy of the _Daily Prophet_ in the other.

"What do you want?" he groaned.

"How are you, Tom?" asked Elizabeth Selwyn. Without waiting for an answer, she stepped to his bedside. With a flick of her wand, she conjured an elegant glass flute from thin air. " _Aguamenti_ ," she murmured, half-filling the vase with clean, crisp-smelling water. The flowers were ruby-red roses, and she popped them into the vase now. In her other hand, the front page of the _Prophet_ was angled towards Tom; _RIDDLE WAKES_ , it read.

"Did you write that?" he muttered darkly.

"Oh, please." Selwyn took a seat at the foot of Tom's bed - safely out of his reach, he did not fail to notice. "I've moved onto bigger and better things than you, Tom."

"Then why are you here?" he snarled.

"To wish you well, of course," she said - then sputtered with laughter. "Besides, I could never resist a story like this."

"Go away. Leave the newspaper here."

"Don't you have anything you want to say to the public?" she prodded.

"What do you want? A tirade? Promises to wreak a terrible revenge? That's the sort of stuff you write, isn't it?"

Selwyn's face softened slightly. "Look, Tom," she said, leaning forward in her hard-backed wooden chair. "I'm sorry about what happened to you, I really am. _And_ for any part I might have played in it. Can't we call this a fresh start? A chance to bury the hatchet?"

Tom met her gaze evenly. "There's only one place I want to bury a hatchet."

Sighing, Selwyn tossed her folded copy of the _Prophet_ towards Tom. He winced as it struck his still-sore chest. "Today's crossword is a good one," she called as she walked away.

* * *

Several hours passed in silence. Or, at least, as close as it ever came to silence on a ward with a chuckling madman. At some point, Tom drifted off to a disturbed sleep, full of visions of dark men, and towers, and snakes with ruby eyes. When he woke, however, it was the jangling of chains that filled his ears. Glancing to his right, he saw the ward-door swing open, and the young blonde-haired nurse leading two figures Tom recognised into the room. He eyed them darkly as they approached.

"How are you, Tom?" asked Potter, as he and Granger took seats at his bedside. The bespectacled, black-haired man sat nearest, but the bushy-haired woman pressed close too. Potter and Granger. The first two human faces Tom had seen in this world. They had brought him into the wizarding world. _And what a fine job they did of it_. They dragged Tom from his hole in the ground, put him on show for the whole world to see, then abandoned him to die. For years, he had undergone the worst sorts of torment, and what had they done? Rub their hands helplessly and say "How awful!"

 _You were supposed to look after me, Potter. You could have taken me in. You could have found room for me. You could have invited me round at Christmas, at Easter, during the summer. You could have stood up for me while your son and your nephew and the entire world spat on me. But you didn't._

"Fine," was all Tom said. "I could leave right now if the Healers would let me. But they won't. They won't give me my wand back either."

Potter flashed a brief sidelong glance at Granger before he continued. "You're not - not in any pain?"

"No," Tom lied. Twisting, he lifted up his pyjama shirt to reveal the pink scarring there. It was about an inch across, the scar, an ugly reminder of the blade that had punched through Tom's skin, nicked an artery, pierced deep into his left kidney - and _twisted_. "It's all healed."

Granger's eyed widened when she saw the mottled pink-purple scar. "Tom-"

"Tell me what happened that day," Tom interrupted, staring into Potter's green eyes. Potter's mouth tightened at the corners, and his hand half-twitched from his lap, and Tom knew that the black-haired man's scar was paining him. "I want to know everything. They won't tell me anything here." He snatched up his copy of today's _Daily Prophet_ from his bedside table and thumbed it open to page four. "Have you seen this?"

Potter and Granger leaned forward to see the article headline; _Exclusive Interview with Astoria Greengrass - Why My Husband Did It._ Slowly, with a quick, sad glance at each other, the pair nodded.

"It was really Draco Malfoy?" Tom asked in a small voice. When neither Potter nor Granger immediately protested Draco Malfoy's innocence, Tom knew the article spoke the truth. "Scorpius's dad tried to have me killed," he muttered, more to himself than anything else. His crimson eyes flitted to Potter's. "He took me out for ice-cream once, you know. It was the summer after second year. We spent the day out in Diagon Alley. Scorpius bought a new broom, and afterwards we went to the ice-cream parlour. I had mint-chocolate-chip." Tom's eyes slid to Granger. "I suppose he was plotting my death the entire time."

"Tom, no-"

"Who else was it?" Tom demanded, stabbing at the open newspaper with a long pale finger. "This says seven arrests, but it doesn't say who."

"Scorpius Malfoy-"

"I know about _him_. Him, I remember," Tom snapped, not bothering to disguise the bitterness in his voice. "It's not the sort of thing you forget." _And I won't_ , he silently promised himself. "There were others, though. Six others. One was Draco Malfoy, I guess. Scorpius, his dad..." Tom held up two fingers. "I'm no mathematician, but I think that leaves five more."

Potter sighed, obviously disquieted. "You don't know them, Tom," he said, glancing uncomfortably at Granger. "Does it really matter?"

"It matters to me."

"They were various friends and acquaintances of Draco Malfoy. They're all in Azkaban now, serving life sentences for conspiracy to commit murder."

"Good," Tom said, leaning back lazily against his pillows. "Scorpius, too?"

"Yes, Scorpius too."

There was a long silence before any of them spoke again. "Those - er - flowers are nice," Granger said unconvincingly, nodding towards Tom's roses. "Who gave you them?"

"One of my many admirers."

Another lengthy silence followed. "Well," said Potter, half-rising to his feet, "we'd better be-"

"What happened to Lily?" Tom asked curiously. "Was she hurt?"

"No," said Potter. There was something deeply uncomfortable in the back of his green eyes as he spoke. Was he that ashamed of his daughter's association with a freak like Tom? "In the - in the confusion, after you were stabbed, she ran for help. George Weasley heard the screams from his shop and came running. Luckily, a couple of Aurors were passing by as well, and together they fought off your attackers. You were taken to St. Mungo's almost immediately. Any longer, and they said you would have died."

"How did people react?" Tom wondered aloud.

Potter blinked, confused. "What?"

"You know - did they cry for me? Was there a candlelit vigil at Hogwarts? A minute's silence at the Ministry? Newspaper articles saying 'Pray For Tom'?" Tom's eyes turned to the _Daily Prophet_ , still open before him, and he found himself thinking of Selwyn for some reason. "Or did they rejoice? _You-Know-Who Dead - Hooray_!"

"The wizarding world was very upset, Tom," Granger said softly.

"Lily was crestfallen," Potter interjected. "She never left your side in the early days. Even when she had to leave, to go back to Hogwarts, she wrote you a letter every week."

"Did she?" Tom glanced aimlessly from side to side, as if searching for said unseen stack of letters. "Strange, I don't see them. Or her, for that matter."

Potter ignored the harsh jibe, though his jaw tightened, and somewhere in the depths of those pale-green eyes, his expression frosted. For the first time, Tom saw a sliver of the man who had defeated Lord Voldemort. "She's at Hogwarts. Lily's in her sixth year now."

"Yeah, I'd managed to figure that out myself, thanks." Tom's tone softened slightly. "Can't she visit?"

"Maybe, Tom."

After a few awkward moments Granger spoke up, her voice artificially cheerful. "We thought, while you were stuck in here, you might want to get caught up on your schoolwork, Tom." Reaching into a tiny handbag, Granger pulled out a surprisingly thick sheaf of parchments - too thick, it seemed, for the handbag that had contained them. "You've missed a lot, but this is the gist of it."

Granger held out the sheaf of parchments towards Tom, but he ignored her outstretched hand. Instead, he pointed at Granger's handbag as she slid it under her chair. "Is that an Undetectable Extension Charm?"

Granger frowned slightly. "Yes, it is. Why?"

"Just wondering," said Tom. "That's advanced magic. NEWT level, isn't it?" Uncertainly, Granger nodded. "I learnt the Undetectable Extension Charm in third year," Tom told her, sliding her pile of parchments back across the sheets towards her. "I don't need your bloody _gist_."

"Tom-"

"You know what you _should_ have done?" Tom interrupted sharply. "As soon as you pulled me out of that tower, you should have whipped me up a new pair of eyes, Granger. I'm sure you could have done it. New normal eyes, a new normal name, and everything would have been fine. But what did you do? You put me on show. You told the world that Lord _bloody_ Voldemort was back!" He glanced again at Granger's neatly-bound pile of notes. "I don't need those. In fact, I don't even need to go back to Hogwarts."

Granger, rather taken aback by Tom's sudden tirade, forced a thin smile. "Tom, you've only completed four years."

"I don't need to go back," he repeated. "I already know everything they could teach me, and more besides."

At that, Potter and Granger exchanged an infuriating wry smile. "We've heard _that_ before, Tom, we can assure you," Granger laughed. "By tomorrow, you'll be desperate to go back."

"Besides, Tom," Potter added, "you don't have any qualifications. You wouldn't be able to get a job. What would you do? Where would you go?"

For an instant, the tower flashed before Tom's eyes. "I'd find somewhere to go," he said stubbornly.

"Hogwarts is your _home_ , Tom," said Potter. "You'll always belong there. Even if - even if sometimes it doesn't feel like it. Trust me, you'll come around." He glanced at his watch. "Well, we'd better go," he said breezily.

Together, he and Granger rose to their feet. "Goodbye, Tom," they both said, turning away towards the door. Besides the entrance to the ward, the nurse was waiting, ready to lock and chain the door the second Potter and Granger stepped outside.

"Why did they do it?" Tom called in a small, hurt voice. "Scorpius and Malfoy and those other people. _Why_?"

"Draco thought he was doing the right thing," Potter said softly. "He said as much at his trial. He - he thought he was doing what was necessary. He practically begged me to see things the way he did." Potter looked momentarily discomforted. "He wasn't right in the head, Tom. He was driven mad by fear."

"Fear of what?" _Me_.

"Fear of - fear of a return to the old days." Potter forced a reassuring smile. "I'm not going to let that happen."

As the ward-door swung shut, the patchy-haired man was laughing once more.

* * *

Lily didn't visit. Three days later, Tom returned to Hogwarts. It was an ignominious exit from St. Mungo's, smuggled out via Side-Along Apparition to avoid the press and other accusing eyes. At the gates of Hogwarts, Tom was turned over to the stern-faced Professor McGonagall, and promptly escorted up to the castle in silence. Darkness was rapidly falling. As they walked through the castle's front doors, a few students were still hanging around in the Entrance Hall; seeing Tom they quickly scurried off, no doubt eager to spread the news. Tom Riddle was back at Hogwarts.

The next day at breakfast, the Great Hall was drowning in whispers. Sitting a way apart even from the rest of the Slytherins, Tom could feel the familiar weight of hundreds of eyes on him. _He's here,_ they whispered. _The freak is back. How did he do it? How did he survive? It must be Dark magic_ , they muttered. _Powerful Dark magic. It's in his blood_. Nott and Harper were among those who stared. There was revulsion in the fair-haired teen's eyes. Harper's gaze was more measured, but when Tom met her eyes, she flinched and turned away.

Hugo Weasley, that snivelling rat, was staring at Tom too. So was his sister, Rose, half-sympathetic, half-curious, and Albus Potter, and half a hundred more at the Gryffindor table. Even Lily. When Tom had entered the Hall, her face had grown pale, and she had half-risen from the table, but the boy sitting next to her - blonde, blue-eyed, handsome - had pulled her back down. Now, they were _kissing_ , and Tom was forgotten.

He was more alone than he had ever been. But, for some strange reason, he didn't mind. As the tower flashed before his eyes, a black spire before a ruby-red sunset, Tom knew he wouldn't be back at Hogwarts for long.


	15. Daisy

She was staring at him again.

Tom sat in a sparsely-populated study classroom, his schoolbooks scattered across the desk before him. Classes had finished for the day half an hour ago; while most students had headed for their common rooms, or the Great Hall, or the castle grounds to enjoy the early spring sunshine, Tom had come here, opened up _Charms and Curses of the Nineteenth Century_ , and happily lost himself in that old book's immensely dry prose. There were only a few other students in the study classroom. One of them, a diminutive first-year Slytherin girl with long blonde curls, sat across the table from Tom. It was she who kept stealing nervous glances at Tom.

The Slytherin girl had her wand clutched in hand. Her eyes resolutely fixed on the open spellbook before her, she was muttering the same incantation over and over again under her breath. With every incantation she _swish-and-flicked_ her wand in a small, self-conscious motion. Occasionally, her efforts would cause the object of her attention, a feather placed on the table before her, to twitch lazily upwards; more often, though, it caused one of Tom's books to leap an inch or two into the air. Mortified, the Slytherin girl's pale-green eyes would flit towards Tom; a second later, they would dart nervously away again. The seventh or eighth time this happened, Tom snapped his book shut.

"Do you mind?" he asked - not unkindly, he felt, though the blonde-haired girl immediately released an involuntary yelp of fear.

"I - er - sorry," she mumbled, face rapidly flushing the same shade of crimson as Tom's eyes. With fumbling, frightened hands, she slipped her wand into her robes, then began to copy out notes from _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_ , into an old leather-bound notebook, trying desperately to ignore Tom's amused gaze all the while. At the top of the page, the curly-haired first-year had scrawled her name; reading upside-down, Tom saw the girl's name was Daisy Greengrass.

"Daisy."

Daisy's knuckles whitened as she tightened her grip on the quill she held in her left hand.

"I'm not a monster," Tom told her. Even to him, it sounded rather pleading. _The world may hate me_ , he thought darkly, _but surely, surely, I can make one frightened little girl see the truth_. "Please, Daisy."

This time, Daisy twitched violently at the mention of her name. Behind his back, Tom vaguely registered the study room's other occupants, two giggling fourth-year Hufflepuff girls, leaving. The door swung shut with a muffled _thud_ , and then they were alone.

* * *

Tom hesitated at the door. Beyond the three-inch-thick wood, he could hear the muffled sounds of jazz music. He glanced at his watch, a scuffed leather-strapped timepiece that Lily had purchased for him in Diagon Alley a very long time ago; it was seven o'clock. He knocked. "Professor Slughorn?" he called.

After a few moments, the sounds of music faded, replaced by the _tip-tap_ of approaching footsteps. The door swung open inwards, and Professor Slughorn stepped into the doorway. The ancient Professor, bald but for a grand white moustache, wore purple-velvet robes; he looked strangely like a walrus. For a second or two, Slughorn blinked confusedly at Tom. There was a half-empty glass of shandy in his hand, Tom noticed.

"You wanted to see me?" Tom prompted.

"What? Oh - oh, yes. Come in, Tom, come in." Slughorn beckoned Tom inside his expansive offices with a stubby hand. "Career interview, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Tom said, letting Slughorn's office door swing shut behind him as he stepped inside. The portly Professor's chambers were as well-outfitted as ever; as they walked, a drinks cabinet swung open, a dusty bottle and two glasses emerging, while in the corner a record player crooned quietly.

"Good to see you up and about, Tom," Slughorn said, leading Tom to a cushy, lavishly-upholstered armchair. "Dreadful business, what happened to you. Dreadful." Slughorn shivered dramatically, as if he had just stepped outside into a bracing wind, then poured himself a brandy. A moment later he offered Tom one but, smiling thinly, Tom declined. He'd always rather liked Slughorn. He was honest, the old Professor, in his own crooked sort of way - which was more than Tom could say for McGonagall, or that gamekeeper Hagrid, or even Longbottom.

"Anyway, Tom, let's get this over with," Slughorn continued amicably. "You're supposed to do this sort of thing in fifth year, you know, but...well, Professor McGonagall insisted."

Tom nodded in understanding, though his private feelings were rather different. _Careers interview, indeed._ More likely, the Headmistress of Hogwarts wanted to assess Tom's mental condition - probably in conjunction with Potter and her other friends at the Ministry. McGonagall probably wanted an excuse to expel Tom. The sooner he was gone, the sooner she could retire, Tom knew.

"Let's get started then, shall we? Now, where did I leave that sheet of parchment?" Rising to his feet totteringly, Slughorn bumbled around his office for a few minutes, rifling through desks and drawers and folders to no avail. "Ah-hah!" he eventually boomed, returning to the main room of his expansive office triumphantly. "I'd been using it to steady the leg of my favourite footstool. Now..." Sitting opposite Tom, Slughorn read from the sheet of parchment in a monotone voice.

"Tom, this meeting is to talk about any career ideas you might have, and to help decide which subjects you should continue into - er - the sixth and seventh years." Slughorn frowned at that last line, then tossed the piece of parchment aside. "Have you selected subjects yet, Tom?"

"No." Tom shrugged helplessly. "Professor McGonagall says I need to take my O.W.L.s before I can choose subjects. She says I should spend the rest of the year catching up on O.W.L. material, then take the exams this summer with the fifth-years. In my seventh year..." he shrugged again. "I suppose I'll have to do all my N.E.W.T. work that year."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Slughorn. "A bright young lad like you, spending the rest of his time here at Hogwarts catching up to his class-mates? I'll wager you're the brightest mind in your year, Tom, O.W.L.s or not. I'll have a word with Minerva for you."

"Thank you, sir," Tom said politely. He didn't particularly care about his subjects, in truth; whenever Tom tried to think ahead to the future these days, all he saw was the tower. He appreciated the old Professor's efforts, however, even if they had come six years too late.

"Well, let's forget your subject choices just now, Tom," Slughorn said. "Have you given any thought to what you might do after leaving Hogwarts?"

Tom smiled wryly. "I thought I might follow in my father's footsteps. Joking, _joking_ ," he added quickly as Slughorn made a flabbergasted noise of surprise. "Or maybe I'll become an Auror. Wouldn't _that_ be a touching story?"

"Tom..."

"I have _no_ idea what I want to do, Professor," Tom said, exasperated. "I've just spent eighteen months in a coma, I don't think right now is the time to be planning my future."

"Tom, these school days are among the most important of your life," Slughorn blustered. "If you don't focus, if you don't plan your future, you may very well find your incredible talent wasted. Do you want to spend the rest of your life working behind a desk?"

"No."

Slughorn took a deep, contemplative sip of brandy. "So what _do_ you want?"

"I don't know, sir." Tom tried to picture himself working in the Ministry of Magic, or running a shop in Diagon Alley, or teaching at Hogwarts - but he just couldn't see it. All he could see was the tower.

"Well, what do you enjoy?" the old Professor asked. Tom just shrugged. "Oh, come on, Tom," Slughorn urged ponderously. "Everybody has a passion for _something_. I myself have a weakness for the temptations of double-malt brandies."

"I - I like working with magic," Tom muttered uncertainly. "Learning spells, inventing spells. It comes naturally to me."

"There you go," Slughorn said encouragingly. "Perhaps a career in magical research! The Department of Mysteries are always looking for bright young minds. Or the Robson-Dagworth Institute!"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"You know, Tom-" Slughorn leaned forward conspiratorially- "I still have a few contacts in the Ministry. _Even_ in the Department of Mysteries. Strange fellow, Croaker. Never calls ahead when he comes round for tea."

"Er - I'll think about it, Professor. Thanks," he added heartfeltly.

"No problem, Tom, my boy," Slughorn said, white moustache twitching merrily. "I'll have a word with Minerva about your studies. As for now, you're welcome in my N.E.W.T. class any time. We're studying Felix Felicis tomorrow, if you want to come along."

"I've heard of that," Tom replied thoughtfully. "The luck potion? It takes six months to brew."

"That's the one," Slughorn said kindly. As Tom rose to his feet, Slughorn walked him to the office door. The old Professor patted Tom affectionately on the back. "You'll be alright, Tom."

* * *

"Daisy?" When the girl's only response was to increase the intensity of her frightened scribbling, Tom continued. "That's a nice name. I never got to choose my name. Well, I mean, obviously you never got to choose your name either, but your parents would have picked it. Me-" Daisy's left hand was trembling- "they just named _me_ after some old mass murderer that I happened to look like, and guess what? Everybody thought I was him! Not really fair, is it?"

Suddenly, Daisy seemed to register that she was alone with Tom Riddle, monster. She leapt to her feet, hurriedly stuffed her books and objects into her satchel, then broke into an almost-run for the door. With a hot flash of anger, Tom pointed his wand at the first-year's back. He _had_ to make her see. Immediately, Daisy snapped back towards him, as if the young blonde girl had an elastic rope attached to the small of her back.

"That was rude, you know," Tom sighed, as Daisy fell onto the floor at his feet, sobbing quietly. Her satchel flew open as she landed, and her schoolbooks scattered all over the floor. "Wasn't it, Daisy?" Her bottom lip quivering, Daisy said nothing. Fury was suddenly coursing through Tom, though he wasn't quite sure why. " _WASN'T IT_?" he screamed.

Daisy's head bowed in a tiny frightened nod. Hands shaking violently, she haphazardly gathered her belongings back into the schoolbag. More than once, she picked up a book, only to immediately drop it again.

"Let me do that," Tom said. With a _swish_ and a _flick_ of his wand, two of Daisy's schoolbooks rose into the air and floated towards the young girl's open satchel. "You see, Daisy, it's Levi- _o_ -sa, not Levio- _sa_."

Whimpering, Daisy rose to her feet. She looked as if she were considering another dash for the door, so Tom forced her onto the bench beside him with another swipe of his wand. He had to make her see. "I think I knew your cousin, Daisy," he continued, smiling reassuringly at the little blonde-haired girl. "How is cousin Scorpius? Or Uncle Draco, how's he handling life in Azkaban?"

" _Please_ just let me go-"

"You shouldn't be scared of me!" Tom interrupted fiercely. "What's to be scared of?" Daisy wouldn't even meet his eyes, so Tom grabbed her chin with long pale fingers, turning the girl's pale-green eyes towards him. "I'm not a monster. Am I? _Am I_?"

Wide-eyed, terrified, Daisy shook her head. "Please stop," she murmured weakly. " _Please._ "

"Am I a monster?"

" _No_!" she yelled between shoulder-wrenching sobs. "Just _let me go_!"

"Okay," Tom sighed. He released his grip on the eleven year-old girl, and she broke down into renewed, relieved sobs. He tried to place a pale hand across her shoulders, but she shied away, shuddering at his touch. As she fled, he wondered what he had done wrong.

* * *

Harry stared, dumbfounded, at the newspaper before him. A Selwyn story. He supposed he should be used to it by now, but he still felt the familiar flicker of anger. "Where did things go so wrong, Hermione?" he demanded, tossing the newspaper aside in disgust. "Why are they still _doing this_? Don't they see they're turning a scared boy into - into _that_?"

He jerked his head towards the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. Across the desk, Hermione pursed her lips uncertainly. "Harry," she said, reaching across the table to touch his hand reassuringly, "we don't know this is true - I mean, it _is_ the _Prophet_."

"Of course it's true. You saw what Tom was like back at St. Mungo's. This constant - this _deluge_ would wear anyone down. It's a hundred times worse than anything I ever faced." Harry put his face in his hands. "It was supposed to boil over. A few months, that was what you said."

"I was wrong."

"You were." With a colossal effort, Harry straightened in his chair. "What can we do? Nothing, probably. Tom doesn't want our help. He probably thinks he's had enough of it." A thought suddenly occurred to Harry. "Who's the editor at the _Prophet_?"

Hermione could only shrug, and stare at Harry with that infuriatingly worried gaze of hers.

"Ginny would know," Harry said thoughtfully, rising to his feet. "I'll talk to her."

"You aren't going to do anything stupid, are you?" Hermione asked softly. "Harry, don't get too wound up about this. Please. It'll all work out in the end."

"I just want to talk to him," Harry said with a renewed energy. "And don't say _it'll all work out in the end._ That's the sort of attitude that got us-" he gestured wildly at the front-page of the _Prophet-_ "got us _here_. It's time we started _doing_ something to help Tom."

* * *

"Mr. Hector." Harry rose to his feet as the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ , a small elderly man draped in fine velvet-black robes, entered his office. "It's good to meet you."

"Yes, yes," Hector muttered distractedly. Shaking Harry's hand, he sank into an armchair at the foot of Harry's desk without invitation, then immediately began to puff on an enormous black cigar. "Ginny mentioned you wanted to see me?"

"Er - yes." Harry leaned forward as Hector's cigar began to emit large, billowing clouds of toxic green smoke. Coughing slightly, he continued. "About - er - your coverage of Tom Riddle. I want you to lay off him. He's just a kid."

Hector raised a hairy white eyebrow. "You aren't questioning the freedom of the press, are you, Mr. Potter?"

"No. Nothing like that," Harry said hastily. He knew what it could cost to get on this man's bad side. "I just want to talk. And - er - this is all strictly off the record, isn't it?"

"Of course," Hector assured him smoothly, taking another puff from his cigar. When he smiled, he exposed two rows of rotting-brown teeth. "Go on, Mr. Potter."

"So - er - about Tom," Harry began. "It's about the - er - point of view you've - I mean, the _Prophet_ has taken on him. Elizabeth Selwyn's articles..."

Hector smiled thinly. "The public deserve to know the truth, Mr. Potter, not your own - shall we say, _blinkered_ version." The elderly man leaned forward, his expression frank. "Mr. Potter, the Riddle boy terrorised an entire classful of students. He conjured a snake and had it chase the pupils around the classroom. It even _bit_ one of them!"

"I don't believe that for a second," Harry snapped. "I think you're making things up."

Hector smiled again. "Embellishment is nine tenths of journalism, Mr. Potter."

"Who's your source for these stories?" Harry demanded. "Who does Selwyn know?"

"She knows lots of people, Mr. Potter. Lots of frightened students who write letters home about how Tom Riddle scared them so today." Hector winked at Tom. "She knows a few frightened teachers as well."

"I want you to stop it," Harry said. "Let Tom live his life."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," Hector replied, sweeping to his feet. He didn't sound sorry at all. "But the news is the news, and I sell the news. I've heard your arguments before, and my mind hasn't changed. If you want to tell the public not to be afraid of Tom Riddle, you'll have to do it in some other newspaper. Now, if that's all..."

Harry waved a dismissive, despairing hand towards his office door. "Goodbye, Mr. Potter," said Hector, sweeping magnanimously towards the door. "If I may make one suggestion?"

"Sure," Harry said coldly.

"Spend less time worrying about my newspaper," Hector advised, "and more time worrying about that boy."


	16. Miscommunication

_Miscommunication_

* * *

 _Dear Lily,_

 _I'm worried about Tom. I've seen the stories about the things he's been doing. That thing with the first-year girl...well, I have no idea which parts are true and which parts are straight from that Selwyn woman's foul mind (don't tell James I called her that), but I saw Tom at St. Mungo's, and he seemed angry. Bitter. He's been back for a week now - have you seen him? How is he? At St. Mungo's, he was asking for_ _you. I know you're busy with your studies and with Roger, but I hope you've talked to Tom. You were always a good influence on him. Write back soon._

 _P.S. Mum says congrats on that Quidditch win over Ravenclaw. She said you were amazing._

 _Lots of love, Dad_

* * *

Lily was avoiding him. At first Tom had been unsure, but now he was certain. He'd been back at Hogwarts a week, and all he had seen of the red-haired girl were her bright-brown eyes, always hurriedly darting away whenever they met Tom's crimson slits. She was never alone. At breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, whenever she was in the Great Hall Lily surrounded herself with a protective bubble of friends. Hugo Weasley was with her often, or his sister Rose, or Lily's brother Albus, or any number of Lily's giggling Gryffindor friends - and, always, she was with Smith.

He was a handsome blond-haired Gryffindor from the year above, and he and Lily seemed to be joined at the hip. In the mornings, they descended to the Great Hall together and ate breakfast. Afterwards, they left the Great Hall hand in hand. Even when the two young lovers were separated by the cruelties of the school timetable, Tom couldn't get near Lily. In classrooms, she no longer sat near Tom, and Lily never lingered long after class.

Lily didn't even visit the library any more. On the first night after Tom's return, he had sat in a quiet hidden-away alcove in a corner of the library for hours and hours, convinced that soon Lily would appear. They had spent many happy hours in that alcove, talking and studying and whispering excitedly. It had been a refuge for Tom from the accusing eyes, the stinging words, the shoves and pushes and name-calls. But she didn't come, and when the clock ticked nine, Tom found himself sent scurrying from the library by the sharp bony hands of Madam Pince.

Two nights ago, Tom had even traipsed down to the Quidditch pitch in the pouring rain while the Gryffindor team were practising. Drenched and shivering in the stands, he had called out to Lily as she zoomed past, but she had simply ignored him. Well, Tom had had enough. He stood before a tall golden-framed portrait in the seventh-floor corridor; the painting depicted an overweight woman with long black curls, bedecked in a horrid pink-silk dress, a glass of sherry clutched in her hand.

"Let me in," he told the Fat Lady.

She stared down her nose at him as if he were a particularly-disinteresting worm. Her gaze took in Tom's emerald-and-silver tie, his ragged black hair, his crimson eyes, and the pale-yew wand clutched tightly in his hand. "Password?"

"I don't know," Tom said frustratedly. "Will you let me in?"

"No," the Fat Lady said sniffily.

"Tell Lily Potter to come out, then," Tom said. Turning, he conjured a three-legged wooden stool from thin air and sat on it, leaning lazily against the opposite wall. "I'll wait."

The Fat Lady eyed him disdainfully for a long moment - then turned and disappeared into the side of her portrait. While she was away, Tom passed the time by practising his magic; it was five long minutes before she stepped back into sight. "Stay where you are," she warned, holding up a stubby finger as Tom made to rise. "They're coming out."

Tom held his hands up in supplication, and a moment later the tall golden-framed portrait swung aside, revealing a slender six-foot tall hole in the wall. Through it, Tom could see a warmly-lit common room, alive with the sounds of talk and laughter. The colours crimson and gold were everywhere. Cushy red armchairs and sofas were dotted haphazardly around the room. Two figures stood in the portrait-hole. One had the distinctive red hair of a Weasley; neither of them was Lily, however.

"What do you want, Slits?" Hugo Weasley called harshly. The gangly red-haired boy climbed through the portrait-hole towards Tom. He was followed by blond-haired Roger Smith, burly and scowling. Both crossed their arms threateningly across their chests as they stepped out into the seventh-floor corridor.

"Don't call me that," said Tom, still seated on his short wooden stool, left leg crossed casually across his right knee. "I hate when people call me that."

Sniggering, Hugo flashed a sidelong glance at Smith. Both thought they were sly, sliding their wands from the back pockets of their robes, but Tom saw. Abruptly he stood up, wand hidden in the folds of his robes. "I want to see Lily."

"Why would _you_ want to see Lily?" Smith demanded boorishly.

Tom eyed the seventh-year evenly. Smith had drawn himself up to his full height, and was older and bulkier, but Tom stood an inch taller. "We're friends," he said coolly. "I'd like to see her."

" _Friends_?" Hugo sniggered. "You really think you're friends with Lily Potter? _You_? Look around, Slits, you don't have any friends."

"I do," was all Tom said. _I used to. One, at least. Now..._ "Where is she?"

Smith bristled. "Listen, freak-"

"She doesn't want to see you," Hugo interrupted with relish. "Why would she?"

Tom glared coldly at the red-haired boy. "Can't she tell me that herself?"

Hugo laughed shrilly. "What, you think we've got her tied up in there or something? Yeah, that's right, Slits, Lily's in there right now screaming your name. _Tom, save me! Save from these_ -"

"Hugo. Roger."

As one, the three teenage boys turned towards the portrait-hole, and the red-haired girl that was peering through there concernedly. "Let me talk to him," said Rose Weasley, clambering through the portrait-hole after her brother and her cousin's boyfriend. She stepped between Tom, Hugo and Smith, and reluctantly Tom slid his wand back into his robes. He had been about to shove it in Hugo's foul face. "Go back inside."

Hugo scowled, but he did as his older sister told him. "You too, Roger," Rose said, as Smith glared darkly over her shoulder at Tom. "Go!"

Smith turned and climbed back through the portrait-hole. His dull-brown eyes didn't leave Tom's until the Fat Lady's golden frame swung shut. When he was gone, Rose Weasley turned to face Tom. A small silver 'Head Girl' pin glittered on the front of her black-and-crimson robes. "Where's Lily?" Tom demanded.

Rose stood a head shorter than Tom, but she stared up at him calmly. "She's in there. She's not coming out."

"Then I'll go in."

"You can't," said Rose, not unkindly. "It's against the rules."

"Then send her out!"

With small calming hands, Rose eased Tom back onto his wooden stool. She leant over him, voice soothing. "Look, Tom, it's not that she doesn't _want_ to see you," she said. "You should have seen Lily when she first heard that you were awake. She dropped the _Daily Prophet_ into her cereal and went so pale I thought she might faint."

"Then _why_ won't she see me?" Tom asked. His voice suddenly sounded rather small and childlike.

"It's - it's complicated," Rose said. "You've only been back a few days, Tom. Give Lily some time. She needs to - to figure some things out."

"We were friends."

"Give her time," Rose repeated. She made as if to pat Tom reassuringly on the shoulder, then seemed to think better of it; whether out of fear, revulsion or something else, Tom could not say. "Go get some sleep, Tom. Don't do anything stupid."

She turned away, and Tom suddenly felt a hot flash of anger. _Figuring things out, is Lily? More likely she's sitting in there with Hugo and Smith right now, laughing at me. Those Daily Prophet stories have finally got to her, or the attack in Diagon Alley scared her off. Maybe James has finally convinced her. I bet she's in there right now laughing at the freak._

Rose murmured something unintelligible to the Fat Lady, and the portrait-hole swung open. As the red-haired teen clambered inside, it was all too easy to point his wand at her back. " _Legilimens_ ," he whispered, and then suddenly Rose Weasley's thoughts and memories lay as open to Tom as a library book. It was child's play to find the Fat Lady's password within Rose's tangled thorns.

"Why are you still hanging around?" the Fat Lady demanded, as Tom rose to his feet and stepped towards her. "Get out of here, before I call-"

"Rubinus Oculi," he said, clearly and confidently.

The Fat Lady's jowly face paled. "How do you know that?"

"Just open." While she chewed her lip and fidgeted uncertainly, Tom reached up and tapped himself on the scalp with the tip of his wand. The Disillusionment Charm felt rather like someone had just cracked an egg on the top of his head. When Tom looked down, he saw that he was invisible, and he smiled. "Well?" he asked, staring up at the Fat Lady. He tapped his foot sharply on the stone floor. "I'm waiting."

The portrait swung open, and Tom clambered through the open portrait-hole into the Gryffindor common room. It was warm in here, far warmer than the Slytherin equivalent; the armchairs and sofas he had thought were scattered randomly around were actually, he realised now, clustered around a tall fireplace set in the far wall. A few heads turned towards Tom at the sound of the portrait-hole opening, but they saw straight through him, and they soon turned away again.

Lily sat by the fire. Her head was resting in Smith's lap, their hands clasped together, and they were talking together in low lover's whispers. Cautiously, Tom approached, weaving a careful path through the bus common room, making sure not to step on any toes.

"What did he want?" he heard Lily ask as he approached. The flames were reflected in her bright-brown eyes as she stared adoringly up at the blond-haired teen.

Smith shrugged. "Freak wanted to see you."

"Don't call him that," Lily chided, as the hot anger churning within Tom almost boiled over. _Freak._ More than anything else - more than 'monster', more than 'Voldy', more than 'Slits' - he hated that word. "It's mean."

"Yeah right," said Smith, chuckling, and then kissed her.

When Tom climbed back through the portrait-hole, insides wrenched furiously, Professor Longbottom was waiting. The tall dark-blond-haired man sat on the three-legged stool Tom had conjured only minutes earlier. "I know you're there, Tom," he said as Tom froze. Longbottom flicked his wand, and Tom's Disillusionment Charm flickered and died. "Come with me. The Headmaster wants to see you."

Reluctantly, Tom fell into step beside the Professor of Herbology. "Don't you mean the Headmistress?"

"No."

* * *

"How are you, Tom?" asked the portrait.

There were hundreds of them, all around Tom, all staring down at the black-haired boy from their perches upon the walls. For a moment, Tom almost felt eleven years old again, back in the courtroom beneath the Ministry of Magic, chained to a hard-backed wooden chair while the Wizengamot looked on. _They didn't have to do that_ , he thought with a cold fury. _Potter and Granger didn't have to do that. They didn't. That was when it all started._ The wizarding world had judged Tom then, and found him guilty. He had been paying for it ever since.

He wasn't before the Wizengamot, though, and the feeling soon passed. Tom sat in an uncomfortably-hard leather armchair in the Headmistress' office. Across McGonagall's large neatly-arranged desk, the Headmistress' tall golden-wood chair was empty. On the wall above McGonagall's vacant chair, however, was the portrait who had spoken. Foremost among the hundreds of long-dead Headmasters and Headmistresses, set in a large golden-gilded frame, Tom's questioner was an old man with waist-length white hair and a beard to match. Behind his half-moon glasses, the old man's bright-blue eyes were full of life. His gleaming nameplate read _Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore._

Tom had heard of Dumbledore, of course. They said he was the only man Voldemort had ever feared. The book Tom had been reading - 'The Dark Lord: The Comprehensive Account of He Who Must Not Be Named's Rise To Power' - described their duels in lavish detail. Ever since Tom had awoken and returned to Hogwarts - and ever since his dreams of the dark man and the tower had begun - he had been trying to learn as much as he could about Voldemort.

He was, by all accounts, a madman. Tom had read all about it; how Riddle - the _first_ Riddle - had been raised in a Muggle orphanage, how Dumbledore had brought him to Hogwarts, how he had opened the Chamber of Secrets while little more than a child. Tom had sneaked into the girl's bathroom the book spoke of, but he had found the entrance to the Chamber locked and barred, so he couldn't discover for himself the truth of what the book claimed. Tom had read how Riddle had murdered his father's family, then began a reign of terror that lasted decades. He had read how Potter had killed Tom Riddle.

None of it answered the questions that were gnawing at Tom, however. Neither Potter nor Granger nor anyone else had ever explained it to him, and he himself wondered how he had gone so long without even considering it; who _was_ he? What was he? Was Voldemort his father, or was Tom, like they said, a freak - an experiment gone wrong? Why did a jagged black tower flash before his eyes every time he blinked? He didn't know.

Above Tom, Dumbledore was waiting expectantly. "I'm fine," Tom muttered, flashing a dirty look towards all the other portraits that were watching him. In the frame next to Dumbledore was a man with greasy black shoulder-length hair; staring at Tom with beady-black eyes that revealing nothing, his nameplate read _Severus Snape._ The name rang a bell to Tom, but he couldn't place it. "How did you know to send Longbottom after me?" he demanded of Dumbledore. "Have you been spying on me?"

"Watching," Dumbledore corrected. "We portraits have little more to do than watch, you see." He nodded towards a kindly-looking grey-haired woman, standing high in the third row of portraits to Tom's left. "Dilys is friendly with two dancing women from the seventh floor. She was visiting them, and saw your little spat with Hugo Weasley and Mr. Smith. Dilys returned here at once. We saw it all, your little gambit to get inside the Gryffindor common room - clever, Tom, but rather cruel, I fear. Legilimency is not a tool to be used lightly."

"I didn't hurt her," Tom said defensively.

"An important distinction to be sure," said Dumbledore, but the old man seemed skeptical. "All the same, you should apologise to Rose."

Tom snorted. "I don't think so."

Dumbledore stared down his crooked nose at Tom, and there seemed to be a flicker of disappointment in his bright-blue eyes, but he took the matter no further. "You didn't hurt Rose, Tom," the old man said, "but would you have hurt Hugo? Or Roger Smith?" The old man's twinkling-blue eyes seemed to see right through Tom. "Daisy Greengrass?"

"I might have," Tom admitted. "With Daisy - I didn't mean to - I was just trying to..." He trailed off under the weight of Dumbledore's relentless gaze. "I wouldn't go too far. I wouldn't. I'm not Voldemort." _No matter how often they say I am._

"True," Dumbledore said. "You are not Lord Voldemort - just as Voldemort was not Gellert Grindelwald, and Gellert was not Emeric the Evil or Loxias." His half-moon glasses slid down to the tip of his nose, and Dumbledore pushed them up again with a veiny age-spotted hand. "We have watched you for a long time, Tom. You are on a dangerous path."

Tom had had enough of the old man's faux-kindly gaze. He lurched to his feet, his chair clattering over backwards as he did so. "I didn't choose any path!" he said heatedly. "You say you've been watching me - have you been watching _them_? Have you seen the way they treat me? Have you _done_ anything?"

"We have tried," said Dumbledore, his voice heavy and sad. "It is a strange madness that seems to come over James Potter, Hugo Weasley and their ilk when you are concerned. Otherwise, they are perfectly nice boys."

"Oh, I'm _sure_ ," Tom retorted sarcastically. "Look, what do you want from me? Sorry for sneaking into the common room. I just wanted to see Lily."

Beside Dumbledore, the greasy-haired man's mouth tightened at the corners, and the old man chuckled softly. "Isn't fate a strange thing, Severus?" he asked of Snape. "One Tom Riddle and one Lily Potter meet, and the pendulum swings one way, but when it swings back again...and forty years later, whoever thought it would?"

Snape said nothing. "You must forgive him," said Dumbledore confidingly to Tom. "Severus is rather sensitive when it comes to matters involving his death. Myself, I have learned to take a light-hearted approach. Things worked out well in the end, did they not?"

"Can I go?" asked Tom exasperatedly.

"Very well," sighed Dumbledore. "Consider apologising to Rose. I will spare you a detention, but I _would_ ask that you refrain from tampering with the minds of others, Tom. It is considered most rude."

* * *

 _Dear Dad,_

 _Tell Mum thanks about the Quidditch thing. I should be thanking you, though - it was your move I stole! About Tom - I haven't seen him yet. It's weird, but I'm almost scared to. I mean, I was there in the alley when he was stabbed, and what did I do? A big fat nothing. Does he blame me? Is that why he's doing these things like throwing that poor first-year girl around? And the things they've been saying about him, about how he survived the attack..._

 _Hugo says it must have been Dark magic. I'm not sure about that, but I haven't quite worked up the courage to talk to Tom. What if he's changed? What if he doesn't like me anymore? What if he - I don't know, thinks I've betrayed him or something because of Roger. I don't know. I suppose I'll have to talk to him sooner or later._

 _Lots of love, Lily_

By the flickering candle-light, Lily read the letter. Then, with a sudden, strange rush of anger, she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it aside. For some reason, she was crying.


	17. Dust to Dust

_Dust to Dust_

* * *

He stood on a desolate purple moor. The ground was soft and mossy, the sky a bleak stormy grey. In the distance, he could see a craggy hilltop, jutting upwards out of the rolling purple-green moorland. Atop it was a black speck - the tower, Tom knew now. He had to reach it. And so he walked, and as he walked, that black speck swelled into its familiar, flowing form, like a black-wax candle, half-melted, towering five hundred feet above Tom. He climbed the hill, almost running now, the tower's strength deep within him, a becalmed pool of blackness calling him home. He was close now-

"Riddle!"

Tom's scarlet eyes snapped open. He was in the familiar surrounds of the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom. Tom was slumped to one side in his chair, hidden away at the back of the classroom, three rows apart from the other students. All eyes were on him. One of those twisting in their chair to gawp at Tom was lanky fair-haired Nott. On his first day back in classes, Tom had tried to take his old seat beside his old friends. Nott had angrily pushed him away.

"Get lost, freak," Nott had hissed. "We only hung out with you because Scorpius wanted to, and now we know why that was." Beside Nott, Harper's grey eyes had been reproachful - dare Tom think it, even _sympathetic_ \- but her silence had given the truth to Nott's words. And so Tom was exiled to the back of the classroom. Hidden in the shadows, a cool draught in his face, the teacher droning on and on about things he already knew, it had been all too easy to drift off to dreams of the tower.

Hugo Weasley, too, was staring at Tom with barely-stifled derision. So were Macmillan and Davies, and a dozen more besides. Even Lily had twisted in her chair to stare at Tom, bright-brown eyes soft and sad. Hugo leaned over to whisper some fresh insult in her ear, but she pushed him away angrily. At the head of the class Professor Vector, covering while the Dark Arts teacher was ill, was scowling at Tom. "Sleeping, Riddle?" she called in her raspy, dull voice. "Bored, are we?"

An appreciative chuckle rolled around the classroom. Tom glared coldly at the Professor. "No, Professor," he said.

"No?" Vector repeated dryly. "Then you'll be able to tell me what I was just telling the class, then, Riddle?"

Tom shrugged. "Something I already know, no doubt."

One or two students sniggered at that, but Vector silenced them with a glare. "I was lecturing the class on Inferi, Riddle. Were you listening?"

"I don't need to," Tom said through gritted teeth. His head was throbbing violently. Even when his eyes were open, the tower was there, a constant shadow on his mind. "I _know_ what Inferi are. They're dead bodies reanimated with the Dark Arts. I can make you one, if you like." As Vector's eyes widened in surprise, Tom forced a cold grin. _They want a monster_? _I'll give them one._

"Er - no, that won't be necessary, Riddle," Vector said hurriedly. Was Tom mistaken, or was there a bit of fear there? Hugo Weasley's grin certainly seemed to flicker and fade. "Now, as I was saying..."

As Vector launched back into her monotone lecture, Tom once more drifted off into sleep. Maybe this time, he'd get to the tower. Maybe...

* * *

The clock ticked three, and the great clanging bell rang, and Vector promptly dismissed the class. Together, the class filed out, chatting happily, glad to mark the end of another long school day. All except Tom, that was. He brought up the rear, walking twenty paces behind the others, still lost in his thoughts. While others headed for their common rooms, or to the Great Hall for an early dinner, Tom wandered aimlessly through the corridors. The post-class crowds thinned and thinned until there were no other students in sight. When Tom's stomach began to rumble, he decided to go get some dinner. He turned on the spot in the deserted corridor - and there they were.

It was only a glimpse, a flash of blond-hair and red snatched through the slightly-ajar door of a classroom that had been long-empty. Tom crept to the door, and eased it open another inch. It was Lily and Smith, entwined together in a loving, sickening embrace, their lips locked together passionately. Tom hastily backed away - too late. Lily's eyes snapped open, and she made a shocked little noise, and then broke the kiss.

"Tom - I-"

Turning, Smith saw Tom. "What do you want, freak?" he called angrily, dropping Lily's hand to stride angrily towards Tom. "This how you get your jollies?"

Tom was frozen in place in the doorway. As Smith strode forwards, Lily tried to grab his arm. "Roger..." she murmured weakly, but Smith just shook off her grasping hand.

"Wait a second, 'Lil," he said. "I'm sick of this freak watching us wherever we go. I hate his creepy eyes." He turned back towards Tom. "I reckon it's time I taught him a lesson." He crossed the room in three quick strides before Tom could move, pushing Tom away, shoving the slender black-haired teen into the wall. "You stay away from her, freak. You hear?" He shook Tom violently by the shoulders. "You hear me, freak?"

Tom stared into Smith's eyes. His crimson eyes were narrowed in fury. Behind Smith, he vaguely registered Lily hovering uncertainly, wand in hand. "Call me a freak one more time," Tom warned icily. "I dare you."

Smith scoffed, spittle stinging Tom's face. "What are you going to do, freak-"

Tom's fury exploded like a bomb.

Behind him, the stone wall crumpled, the centuries-old paintings that had hung there incinerated in an instant. The floor beneath his feet cracked, deep flame-licked rivulets torn into the wooden panels. Smith, mere inches away from Tom, face flushed an unpleasant, angry purple, took the full blast in his face. He was catapulted across the deserted classroom, arms flailing like a tossed ragdoll - until he met the nearest wall. With a dull, bone-crunching thump, Smith slid down the stone wall and fell into a crumpled heap on the floor. He didn't stir, and Tom couldn't resist a smile.

Slowly, he approached the blond-haired teen's fallen body. Smith was face down, crimson blood steadily flowing in pulses outwards from his body. When Tom rolled the teen over with the pointed toe of his shoe, Smith's eyes were glazed and lifeless. _I killed him_ , Tom thought, strangely calm. He supposed he should be panicking, but in a way, this made things easier. There was no excuse now, no more need to pretend that he had a place here. He could go in search of the tower. They would chase him, but they wouldn't catch him. Lips twitching upwards in a small smile, Tom turned towards the door.

A few feet away, Lily coughed, and Tom's smile faded. Tom's blast, though softened by Smith's body, had thrown Lily against the opposite wall. She was slumped in a seated position against the stone, eyes closed, a trickle of blood oozing from her temple to drip steadily, _drip-drip-drip_ , onto the wooden floor. Tom took one step towards her - and her eyes flickered open. Hazy with concussion, they darted wildly around for a long moment, then found Tom. "Tom..." Lily murmured, as the pale-skinned boy dashed to her side - but then her eyes slid past Tom to Smith's prone body.

"Lily, you're hurt," Tom said, aghast. He reached for her head-wound with long pale fingers, but the pretty red-haired girl shied away from his touch. Her bright-brown eyes were bloodshot, and they still stared past Tom to her boyfriend Smith. A pool of blood was slowly seeping from the teen's blond head.

" _Roger_..." she whispered.

Ignoring Lily's faint, feeble mumbles, Tom tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his robes. Balling the black cloth in his hand, he began to attempt to staunch the blood still steadily oozing from Lily's forehead. Frantically, he racked his brains for healing spells - he had to know _some_! But none rose to mind. Slowly, as Tom worked, the haziness in Lily's brown eyes seemed to withdraw, and as the fog cleared, she seemed to truly see Tom for the first time.

"T-Tom," she murmured, her voice a weak whisper. Tom leaned close to hear her next words. "What - what the _hell_ did you do?"

"Shush, Lily," Tom urged kindly, though panic was creeping into his chest for the first time. "You're hurt-"

But Lily's strength was back now, and she sat up abruptly against the stone wall. "Get off me," she told Tom.

"Lily-"

"Get _off_!" she yelled. With surprising strength, Lily pushed his hands away, and Tom's blood-soaked ball of cloth fell to the floor. "You've _killed_ him!"

"No, I haven't," Tom lied. "Look, Lily, let me help you-"

"Get _lost_ ," she muttered icily, brown eyes fixed firmly on Tom. There was no brightness there, no warmth - only hate. "You - you _freak_."

When she said - _that word_ \- something deep within Tom snapped, shattering irreparably. The cold black furious strength of the tower flooded in to replace it, and Tom rose to his feet. When he looked down at the red-haired girl, his scarlet slitted eyes were gleaming dangerously. "You shouldn't have called me that," he said coldly, levelling his wand towards Lily's face. The words came instinctively, as if he had known them his entire life. " _Cruci_ -"

" _STUPEFY_!"

Too, too late, Tom remembered that Lily still clutched her wand in her left hand. The red blast hit him in the chest, and before he could even blink Tom was thrown backwards. When he slammed into the opposite wall, it was as if someone had driven a railroad spike through his chest. For an instant, he blacked out. When he came to, in the dust and smoke, Lily's figure loomed over him.

"Lily-" Tom began.

" _STUPEFY!"_ she screamed again.

This time, Tom's Shield Charm caught the blast, reflecting Lily's Stunner into the ceiling. The centuries-old crumbling stone exploded in a shower of dust and debris. As half the ceiling came crashing down, Tom rolled to his feet. Another Stunner scorched the floor where he had just lain. The air was thick with dirt and dust, transforming the deserted classroom into an uneasy, eerie miasma, toxic and choking. Shadows loomed from all sides. Monstrous, twisted shadows, none like a pretty red-haired girl.

Tom picked a direction at random. " _Expelliarmus!"_ he yelled. The green bolt flashed away into the darkness. A moment later, it was met by an answering _bang_.

" _Protego!"_ he heard Lily's shrill familiar voice shout. He ducked reflexively, but his rebounded curse streamed harmlessly to his left, away into the haze. " _Impedimenta_!" Tom heard Lily call a moment later.

He hurriedly stepped aside before the curse had even flashed into view. With a few quick steps, he began to tentatively, circuitously work his way through the murk towards where he thought Lily was, stepping over stones and wood and blood. It was suddenly very silent. All Tom could hear were the short, sharp sounds of his own breath, and the distant muffled squeaking of Lily's footsteps. No doubt she was trying to flank him even as Tom was her.

"Lily?" he called into the gloom. For a moment, the sounds of footsteps faded. "We don't have to do this."

"You killed Roger," came Lily's reply. It floated through the murk to Tom, her voice, an ethereal - yet unspeakably harsh - sound. "You'll kill me."

"I'd never kill you, Lily," Tom called, taking a hasty three steps to his right. He jumped as a shadow loomed out of the dust, but it was only a rusted suit of armour. Stepping under the gleaming steel, Tom continued to _tip-toe_ his way through the darkness. "You're the only one that's ever showed me any decency."

"That's not true, Tom," he heard her say. She was close now. Tom could feel it, a nervous tension in his stomach, goosebumps on his arms, hairs rising on the back of his neck. He raised his wand, ready. "The things they said about you are true. You're crazy. You're delusional."

"Lily, please. We can both walk away from this." Tom was circling now, around and around. Surely, a few feet away, Lily was doing the same. "Just put down your wand. Trust me. You owe me that, at least."

"I owe you nothing," Lily hissed angrily.

"You owe me a chance," Tom repeated softly, angrily, his voice cutting through the murk. "Where were you when I woke up, Lily? Where have you been? I thought we were friends."

"We are _not_ friends."

Tom half-fancied he could hear her breathing. A small part of him wanted to call out her name. _Lily! Please, it was an accident! We don't have to do this!_ A larger part, however, bayed for blood. She had called him a freak. Never again would he allow that to happen. "Last chance, Lily," he called softly, raising his wand.

"Get lost. Freak."

"Very well," he sighed. _"Pulvis Aparecium_!"

With a quiet _pop_ , the thick toxic dust that hung in the air, obscuring the duellists' vision, vanished. Tom stood, as he knew he would, behind Lily's back. His wand was levelled at the nape of the red-haired girl's neck.

She whirled round.

Too late.

" _Crucio_!" Tom screamed dementedly.

As Lily twitched, and contorted, and screamed, Tom walked away.


	18. The Hunt

_The Hunt_

* * *

"Tea, James?"

"No, thanks."

"You sure?" Elizabeth called from the kitchen. A second later, she popped her blonde-haired head through the open door into their apartment's poky living room. "I've just put the kettle on."

James Potter sat by the fire in a chintzy old armchair, an inch-thick folder of Auror paperwork in his lap. He was supposed to be signing his case reports - before he handed them in and they were filed away to never be seen again - but he was growing steadily more drowsy as the evening passed by. Now, as he glanced over his shoulder to face Elizabeth, his eyelids suddenly felt very heavy. "Oh, go on then," he sighed, snapping the folder shut. "This stuff can wait another day, right?"

"Of course," she said dryly. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen as the kettle began to whistle - a shrill high noise. "Two sugars?"

"And milk?"

She rolled her eyes at that, though her lips twitched upwards in a smile. "For the thousandth time, yes, I will put milk in your tea. Just like every single other person on the planet does."

"My dad doesn't," James informed her.

As the sound of the kettle rose to an ear-splitting crescendo, Elizabeth ducked back inside the kitchen. For a few moments, James closed his eyes, contenting himself with the roaring fire, and the cushy armchair he sat in, and the distant clatter of china as Elizabeth poured their tea. When he opened his eyes, however, he wasn't alone in the cramped living room.

It swept in from the window. At first, James mistook it for a shooting star, a brilliant silver gleam in the orange-purple evening sky. But then it grew, and grew, and before James could react the silver shimmer had galloped into his front room. It was a Patronus, an antlered stag, majestic and handsome. It was his father's, and as James rose to his feet, a question on his lips, the Patronus spoke with the voice of Harry Potter. " _Lily attacked. In hospital wing. Come to Hogwarts."_

As soon as it spoke, the stag dissipated in a shimmer of silvery light. His drowsiness - and his tea - immediately forgotten, James pulled on a pair of shoes, a jacket, then hurried to the front door. His hand was on the doorknob when-

"James?" Carrying a tray bearing two china mugs, Elizabeth had re-entered the living room. The sweet fragrant smell of Earl Grey came with her. "Where are you going?" she asked, her loving smile fading uncertainly.

"Lily's been hurt," James explained urgently. "I need to get to Hogwarts."

"But is it serious?" she asked, a journalistic curiosity in her eye. "Who hurt her?"

"I don't know, but it sounds bad." James crossed the room in two quick strides, then planted a pecked kiss on his girlfriend's cheek. "Keep my tea warm for me, OK?"

"OK," Elizabeth echoed wistfully. "Good luck. Tell Lily I hope she's OK."

"I will," James assured her. Turning away, he headed for the door. As he stepped outside into the hallway, he heard Elizabeth's call, and smiled.

"Be careful!"

* * *

"Where is she?" James called immediately, his frantic strides increasing to an almost run as he entered the hospital wing of Hogwarts. Clustered around the foot of the nearest bed - obscuring any view of whatever lay beyond - were what seemed to be James' entire extended family. He was momentarily taken aback; not just Mum and Dad and Albus, but Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron, cousins Rose and Hugo, and even Teddy Lupin. A few steps away stood Professor McGonagall and Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, heads bowed together in low urgent conversation. Their faces were grave; James's father, in particular, looked as pained, as ashen-faced, as James had ever seen him. "Is she..."

But then the crowds parted, and James felt his mother's small warm reassuring hands guiding him through the sea of red hair towards the bedside. When James saw Lily, his heart leapt into his throat. She was sprawled on the soft white sheets in a hospital gown, unconscious. Three deep gouges had been slashed into her cheek, and a mottled-purple bruise was already coming up over her right eye. Though she was asleep, every few seconds James' little sister twitched violently, her pretty face contorting in a wince of pain.

"What happened?" James demanded of no one in particular.

It was sixteen year-old Hugo that stepped forward to answer, slight, tall and red-haired, his father's reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I - I found her," Hugo explained in a stuttering, still-shocked voice. "I heard noises - a _fight_ \- I came running - but I got there too late."

"Too late?" James repeated blankly. He spun towards his father. "What happened, Dad? Is Lily-"

"Lily's fine, James," Harry said in an oddly-withdrawn voice. He sat by Lily's bedside, his daughter's limp hand clasped in his own, but his eyes stared blankly forwards, and his thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Something was deeply troubling James' father. "She's a little banged up, and she's probably still in shock, but Madam Pomfrey is fixing her up."

"So - what - who..." James was growing more and more confused by the moment. "Then - what..."

"Lily will be fine," said Hugo. The sixteen year-old's face twisted unpleasantly. "But _he_ got away."

"Who?" James asked, baffled - and then, a millisecond later, it all fell into place. "No." His eyes beseeching, James tuned to his father. "Dad, please don't tell me Slits did this."

A thousand times, Dad had reprimanded James for using that childish nickname - but this time, Harry just nodded weakly, and James cursed loudly in fury. He reached for the nearest small object he could find, a small hand-mirror at the foot of Lily's bed, and tossed it across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a satisfying _thunk_ , and James sank into the nearest empty chair, his shoulders slumped. He'd known it. He'd known all along that Tom Riddle was a monster. And yet he had done nothing. "What did he do to her?" he demanded in a low, ragged voice.

This time, it was Aunt Hermione who spoke up. "We think-" she paused, flashing an uneasy sidelong glance at Harry, who nodded- "we think that Tom Riddle used the Cruciatus Curse on Lily." James couldn't hold back another muttered stream of curses. He'd left his sister alone with that - that _freak_ , that _monster_ , and now...he glanced at Lily. His sixteen year-old sister's sleeping features were twisted in pain. James could only imagine the agony she had suffered at Riddle's hand.

"They destroyed a classroom," Aunt Hermione continued. She audibly gulped before delivering the next blow. "A - a boy is dead."

For the first time, James noticed the small cluster of blond-haired figures at the distant end of the ward. They were huddled around a prone figure that James could not see. He could barely find his voice. "Wh - who?" he mumbled hoarsely.

"Roger," Rose Weasley said, sniffling, tears in her eyes. "Roger Smith."

Behind Rose, Professor McGonagall's face was an iron mask, but her eyes were haunted and distant. There was a long nervous silence before any of them spoke again. "Where is he now?" James demanded. They all knew who he spoke of.

"We - we don't know," said Dad.

"We have to find him." James leapt to his feet, hot fury rushing through his veins. "He can't have gone far. You can't Apparate on the grounds of Hogwarts. He'll have made for the road to Hogsmeade, or for the Forbidden Forest, and he's on foot." When no one moved, James clapped his hands together. Half of them flinched at the sudden noise. "Come on, we have to _find_ him! Now!"

Slowly, as if in a dream, Dad nodded. "Ginny, look after Lily," he murmured. "Rose, Hugo, Albus, you three stay here. Go back to your dormitories. Minerva, would you see to Smith's family?" Nodding stiffly, the aged Headmistress of Hogwarts withdrew, chivvying the children along before her. Once they were gone, Harry turned back to the rest of the group. "Teddy, James, search the road to Hogsmeade. Take brooms, or Thestrals if you can see them. Hagrid will help you. Me, Ron and Hermione will search the Forest." He turned to Kingsley. "Kingsley, you'll have to get back to the Ministry, there'll be a storm brewing over this-"

"I'm staying, Harry," Kingsley interrupted in his deep, slow voice. "I'll organise a search of the castle. There's a chance Riddle might still be here."

"OK." James' father rose to his feet. "Let's go."

* * *

"See anything?" Teddy called, more in hope than anything else, as he and James swept through the air on hastily-borrowed broomsticks. Far beneath them were the grounds of Hogwarts, miles and miles of tall pine trees and shallow green hills. Snaking between the trees was the narrow mud track that led from the castle's doorstep to the village of Hogsmeade. From this height, far above the forest, James could see the village, nestled atop a nearby hill to the south. As the sun set, one by one the lights of Hogsmeade flickered into life.

"Nope," he sighed, screeching to a halt in mid-air. Turning, he saw the castle, a distant cluster of towers and battlements. _Too distant_ , he thought. "He can't have got this far, not on foot. Let's turn back."

Teddy nodded grimly. "I'm going to head back to the castle," he said, almost shouting against the ever-increasing winds. "See what's going on. You coming, James?"

"No." James glanced to his left, to the dark ominous expanse of pine-trees that stretched endlessly to the horizon, to the place every Hogwarts student stayed away from if they could help it. "I'm going to the Forest."

* * *

Darkness was rapidly falling. James swept through the velvet sky on his broomstick, hovering fifty feet above the trees, eyes sweeping the forest below for any sign of movement. Somewhere down there were Dad, and Aunt Hermione, and Uncle Ron. Somewhere down there was Tom Riddle. The freak who had tortured James' little sister. James was going to find him. James was going to kill him. A twitch of movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Below, he heard rustling as something - something _large -_ fought through the undergrowth. His heart thumping, James slid his wand from his pocket.

" _Homenum Revelio_!" he shouted, wand lowered towards the thick foliage below. There was a moment's silence, broken only by the light pitter-patter of a chill winter rain - and then a deer bolted, spooked, from the trees. As the deer dashed away into a clearing and disappeared into the pine trees beyond, James cursed loudly. It was then, as he turned away towards the castle, heart sinking in defeat, that he saw it. A slender shadowy figure, crouched behind the trunk of a fallen oak tree a hundred feet away.

"Dad?" James called uncertainly. He swooped lower to investigate, toes skimming the top of the tree-line as he descended. "Aunt Hermione? Uncle Ron?"

For a second, there was no answer, and James inched closer still. And then-

" _STUPEFY_!"

The red blast crackled upwards towards James like a bolt of lightning. Too late, he dived aside, sending his sluggish Comet Two-Sixty into a desperate downwards tailspin. The Stunner thudded into the broomstick's tail-twigs, and the old brittle wood exploded in a shower of sharpened splinters. James screamed as his back erupted in a thousand fiery pinpricks of pain, and then he was falling. He plummeted out of the sky, tumbling uncontrollably, and the ground was rushing up fast. A hundred feet - fifty - twenty - and James closed his eyes.

He bounced once, twice, then rolled to a stop. When James rose to his feet, teeth gritted, entire body screaming in agony, he saw the shadowy figure again. Riddle was two hundred feet ahead, fleeing through the trees away from James. Grimly, he grinned, wiping a trickle of blood away from the corner of his mouth. The chase was on. He ran in the darkness, stumbling over logs and bushes and god-knows-what, for some time. All the while, James cursed under his breath, brain full of vivid imaginations of what he was going to do with Slits once he caught him.

He was getting closer. He could make out features now, as he chased the tattered-black figure through the Forbidden Forest; a ragged mop of black hair, flushed-pale skin, a glint of crimson eyes in the moonlight. He was getting closer, and James' wand was clutched in his hand. " _Impedimenta_!" he yelled, firing off a snapshot towards the robed figure amongst the trees. Twisting, Riddle conjured a wordless Shield Charm, rebounding James' flashed curse back towards him. James dived behind the nearest tree. Once the curse thudded into the thick wood, he kept running.

The rain was pelting down now. It was in James' eyes, his ears, his mouth. His sodden robes weighed him down, his over-long hair obscuring his vision. Elizabeth was always telling him to get it cut, he remembered suddenly. James' boots were filthy from splashing through the ankle-deep puddles that had formed everywhere on the forest floor. The muck had crept up his legs, and his robes were chafing fiercely – but he was still getting closer. He could see Riddle, fifty feet ahead through the trees; James could hear the sixteen year-old's heavy panting breaths, his groans whenever the black-haired boy stepped in something foul. James could taste his victory.

" _Crucio_!" came Riddle's sudden demented scream, and a flash of light in the darkness.

James had been expecting the surprise attack. He stepped aside, neatly dodging the curse, then raised his wand to chest-level. Stepping forward into the shadow of an especially-tall pine tree, his eyes swept the forest for Riddle. Beyond the tree James sheltered behind was a small moonlit clearing, little more than an opening in the thick forest. Riddle was nowhere to be seen. He would be lurking on the other side of the clearing, James thought, waiting for his opponent to step into the moonlight – to make himself an easy target. _Well, Slits, that isn't going to happen._

James waited, and waited, and after a minute or two – as he knew he would – Riddle stepped forward into the moonlight, wand raised cautiously. James waited for Riddle to step further forward from safety, one, two, three steps into the clearing – and then he struck.

" _Expelliarmus_!" he yelled, leaping out from behind the tree into the clearing.

Riddle reacted instantly. He threw up a Shield Charm which rebounded James' charm straight back towards him. James ducked reflexively, but when he straightened, Riddle's curse was already on its way.

" _Protego_ -"

James barely got his Shield Charm up in time. The force of Riddle' white-silver blast almost knocked him off his feet. As it was, he skidded backwards ten feet in the mud, arms flailing desperately to keep his balance, and more curses were already on their way. James rolled aside desperately, and they thudded into the dirt, _thud-thud-thud._

" _Stupefy_!" James yelled from the ground as Riddle advanced. The red blast flashed an inch past Riddle's ear, but the sixteen year-old boy didn't flinch. His scarlet eyes shone in the moonlight. James scrabbled to his feet, wand raised – and the force of Riddle's Disarming Charm flattened him. His wand was blasted two hundred feet away into the pitch-black forest. James was thrown backwards, his head crashing to the ground in a stony, muddy puddle that sent a spike of pain shattering through the pit of his skull. His back erupted in fresh agony and, above James, Riddle loomed.

"Listen, James," Riddle said softly. "I – I never meant to kill anyone. I never meant to hurt Lily."

"Sure," James muttered poisonously. He tried to rise to his feet, but his left leg buckled, and he toppled back into the mud. "This is all just a big misunderstanding, isn't it, Slits?"

Riddle stood over James, a curiously-sad expression on his face. "I wish I could go back." Crouching, the boy James had loathed for so many years offered him a hand. James eyed it bitterly for a long moment – and then he spat. Nimbly, Riddle pulled his hand away, and the saliva spattered into the mud at Riddle's feet. His crimson eyes flitted momentarily downwards, then returned to James. "But there's my answer," he murmured softly, more to himself than anything else. "There's no place for me in your world, James."

"Glad you've finally taken the hint."

At that Riddle's lips twitched upwards in a sad, wry smile. He raised his wand into the air, and a moment later James' wand leapt into his hand. James dived for it, but Riddle stepped back, and tucked James' wand into the folds of his robes. "Can you feel that, James?" he called through the sleeting rain as James lay face down in the muck.

James climbed, groaning, to his knees. "Feel what?" he grunted.

"Freedom," Riddle replied simply. "We're outside the castle boundaries. You know what that means?"

"I'm going to kill you," James told him in a matter-of-fact voice.

"Are you?" Riddle remarked wryly. Turning away from James towards the trees, he slipped his wand into his pocket. "Tell Lily – tell her I'm sorry."

As the black-haired boy spun on the spot, James realised what Riddle was doing. At the same instant, he realised he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let the freak go. With the last of his strength, James leaped forward, and seized a fistful of Riddle's robes. Together, they disappeared with a loud _pop_.


	19. Riddles in the Dark

_Riddles in the Dark_

* * *

As soon as Tom and James emerged from the squeezing grip of Apparition, the older boy released his fistful of Tom's robes. Coughing and groaning, James toppled to the soft mossy ground. "Wh-where are we?" he mumbled, staring up at the black stormy sky. Amused, Tom followed his gaze. Far above the pair, and the purplish moor on which they stood, lightning was crackling ominously. A flash of electric-blue illuminated Tom's pale face for an instant - and then it was gone, chased away by the growling rumble of thunder. Thick heavy raindrops splashed onto Tom's face as he stared. The wind was howling in his ears. _It's real_ , he thought wondrously. Far off to the right - barely visible in the darkness, but in the light of the lightning he had seen it - a craggy hilltop, rising from the flat moorland like a bubble on still water.

All Tom could see of the tower was a slender spire of blackness, even deeper than the night sky, but it was there. It was real. Tom turned to James, who was rising unsteadily, at last, to his feet. "Go home, James," he told the black-haired man.

"And let you go?" James spat again. "Never."

"Suit yourself."

Turning away from James, Tom began his long walk towards the tower. A few seconds later, he heard James lurch into pursuit. The older man's footsteps were heavy, and tired, but he stubbornly followed Tom across the moors. At any moment, of course, Tom could have whirled, wand in hand, to curse James in any number of ways; he could wipe James' memory, or use a more potent version of the Impediment Jinx Tom had concocted to freeze him where he stood, or blast James into the darkness, or torture him until he was a broken, snivelling wreck - or Tom could kill him. But he didn't. Truth be told, he was rather enjoying James' helplessness. All these years, James had inflicted relentless misery on Tom; now, he was returning the favour.

Slowly, as they walked, the tower loomed into sight. It was just as Tom had dreamt it; an organic, twisted creation of volcanic-black stone. Monstrous, yet somehow beautiful. "What the hell is _that_?" James exclaimed. Tom ignored him. Instead, taking his first step onto the loose gravelly stone of the hilltop, he began to climb. James followed him doggedly, grunting and groaning, though Tom barely noticed him. His thoughts, his attention - his entire being - was focused on the tower. What waited for him in that room, at the top of that endless flight of stairs? Lord Voldemort? Possibly, though Potter had always seemed certain that Voldemort was thoroughly destroyed whenever the topic came up in Tom's hearing.

Whatever it was, Tom felt sure it had to be better than what he had left behind. He climbed in silence for a long time. He was nearing the hill's rocky peak when James suddenly lurched forward and grabbed his shoulder. Tom's hand leapt protectively to his wand, but James made no attempt to grab the pale yew stick - or the older man's own wand, tucked safely in the folds of Tom's robes. "Time you started talking, freak," James hissed in Tom's ear. "What is this place?"

Tom shrugged off James's grip easily. "I don't know," he lied easily, resuming his slow climb upwards. "Looks interesting, though, doesn't it? Oh, and-" swivelling, Tom prodded James in the chest, _hard_ , with the tip of his wand, leaving a scorch-mark- "call me a freak again, and I _will_ kill you."

James said little after that. He didn't speak again until they had crested the hill, and stood before the tower in all its majesty. It filled Tom with strength and warmth, but when he turned to James the man looked deeply uncomfortable. "This is weird," he said, shivering slightly. "Do you feel that? It's like it's - it's sapping away all my strength."

"Nope. Maybe it's the blood loss." Tom left James behind, striding forwards to the tower's cool-stone wall. There was no discernible entrance, but - as in his dream - as Tom neared, the black stone melted away, and the familiar steps appeared. Hewn roughly into the stone, they spiralled upwards and upwards until they vanished from sight. As James stumbled after Tom, Tom turned towards him, emerald-green candles flickering at his back. "Last chance to walk away, James," Tom warned. "I don't know what will happen in here."

Grimacing as he stepped ever-closer to the tower, James shook his head weakly. "Never." He broke into a fit of racking coughs, then glared at Tom with hateful eyes. "You tortured my sister."

"I might have got a little over-excited," Tom admitted with a thin, rueful smile. "In my defence, Lily was the one pressing the attack. I tried to _stop_ the duel. I begged her."

"Shut up."

Tom rolled his eyes, and turned away from James. He began to climb the stairs, taking them two at a time, muddy boots squidging with every step. The walls were inlaid with thousands of jewelled snakes, each with glittering ruby eyes. Tom admired them as he climbed, until - in the corner of his eye - he noticed James edging closer and closer. His brown eyes were fixed on the pocket where Tom had stowed the older man's wand. James tensed, taking a sharp intake of breath as he prepared to tackle Tom to the ground - and it was over in an instant. Tom drew his wand before James could so much as twitch, levelled it at the black-haired man's face and - _bang_!

James' nose snapped to the side with a hot spurt of blood. He cursed loudly, furiously, and staggered against the wall, but somehow kept his feet. "What the hell was that for?" he yelled.

"You know what it was for."

Again, Tom left James behind. Ahead, above him, were the last few steps. They led to a darkened, finely-crafted stone archway. Chiselled into the stone of the archway was a great twisting snake, its eyes the same emerald-green as the lanterns. The chamber beyond the archway was pitch-black. Nervous excitement flaring within him, Tom stepped through into the darkness. Behind him, he heard James cursing again, and then the sound of hurried footsteps as James lurched up the stairs after Tom. He burst into the chamber and, unable to see, thudded into Tom's back. As James fell to the ground once more, Tom walked forward.

" _Let me see,_ " he hissed in Parseltongue. " _Where are you_?"

There was a soft answering _hiss_ \- and then Tom felt breath on the back of his neck. As he whirled round, the green-flame candles flickered back on. The chamber was similar to the one Tom had been imprisoned in for so long. A great jewel-scaled snake statue dominated the chamber, its eyes glittering crimson gemstones. Wide-eyed, turning slowly on the spot, Tom followed the great snake's winding coils from ceiling to floor. It was then that he saw it, wrapped up in the snake's comforting coils. It wasn't Lord Voldemort.

It was a girl. She was pretty, with raven-black hair, and skin as pale as milk. She looked about sixteen, slight of frame, though tall for a girl. Her eyelids were squeezed tightly shut. Tentatively, Tom approached her. Vaguely, he registered James climbing to his feet behind him, but all Tom's conscious attention was on this mysterious girl. Somehow, instinctively, he knew her - and he knew what to do. With a long pale finger, Tom reached out to touch the girl's forehead. Her skin was surprisingly cold to the touch.

The girl's eyes blinked open. They were Tom's eyes, narrow crimson slits, dripping with amusement. Reflexively, Tom yanked his hand back from the girl's skin, and she laughed, a high cold noise. Tom was frozen to the spot. The girl hissed a command in Parseltongue and, with a colossal rumble of stone, the snake statue uncoiled, freeing her. The girl, dressed in wispy, tattered black robes, beneath them bare-foot, took her first curious step forward. Her eyes found Tom.

" _Hello, brother_ ," she hissed. Her scarlet eyes slid past Tom to where James stood, frozen dumbstruck against the far wall. " _Who is this worm_?"

"I - er..." still stunned, Tom took a dazed step backwards as the girl advanced towards him. "This is - er - James."

The girl's pretty elfin nose crinkled in distaste. " _A Potter_?" she asked, and Tom nodded uncertainly. _"Kill him_."

"What are you two hissing about?" James demanded loudly. As the girl sidled towards him, head tilted curiously to the side, he backed away hastily towards the chamber's arched entrance. "Speak English! Who the hell is _she_?"

"I am..." the girl paused, as if the words were unfamiliar in her throat. "I am Tom Riddle."

Tom laughed, and the girl's ruby-red eyes leapt to him. "No, you're not. I am."

"Really?" she said thoughtfully. Her eyes were suddenly narrowed uncertainly. "Strange - yet, I suppose, apt." She glanced downwards at her body. "I _am_ a girl, after all. I will have to find a new name." She returned her attention to James, stood in the chamber's grand archway like a deer in the headlights. "Is this one a friend of yours, Tom Riddle?"

"No."

"Good." The strange girl took Tom's hand in her own. Her hands were icy-cold, and her long nails dug into Tom's skin, but he didn't shy away. "You will have to kill him, Tom. I don't have a wand."

Tom glanced at James. The older man was wide-eyed and frantic. His eyes darted between Tom and the strange girl. For the first time, he looked frightened. "Tom, kill her!" James demanded. "She's - you're one thing, but she - she's Voldemort reborn!"

Tom turned to the girl. "You're my sister."

She smiled reassuringly at Tom. So this was his choice, then. James Potter had bullied and belittled Tom at every chance. Harry Potter had dragged an eleven year-old boy to the courtroom to go on trial before the Wizengamot. Wizards and witches beyond count hated and feared Tom. The _Daily Prophet_ had made it its own personal mission to see Tom banished, expelled or killed. Even Lily despised him now. In the end, Tom supposed, it wasn't really a choice at all.

"Together," said Tom, handing the strange girl James' wand.

"Tom, please," James muttered frantically. "I - I - _please_ -"

The words came naturally to Tom.

" _Avada Kedavra_!" they yelled.

With two flashes of green light, James Potter fell lifeless to the floor. Beside Tom, the strange girl squeezed his hand warmly. "Excellent, Tom." She smiled, and Tom knew this girl was something he had never had before. Family. "Now, I suppose you need to give me a name. How about James?"


	20. Monsters

_Monsters_

* * *

The rain-lashed walls of Azkaban had seen many prisoners come and go. Though the Dementors of Azkaban were long gone, driven out in the wake of the Second Wizarding War by the forces of the Ministry of Magic, the towering, gothic prison in the middle of the North Sea was no less full. On this particular December morning, in fact, there were precisely three hundred and sixty-two prisoners in Azkaban. Each had their own cell, six feet by six feet by eight. The cells were three walls of stone, one slitted inch-thick window, set high in the rear wall, and ten steel bars that barricaded the cells' open-faced entrances. Outside the cells was a vast cavernous darkness punctuated only by the snores of the inmates. From the highest row, a prisoner could spit from the door of his cell and not hear the _splash_ for twenty seconds.

The clock ticked six in the morning, and the impenetrable mid-winter darkness was broken by a chink of orange light. On the lowest level of stairs, the door to the guards' office swung open with a _shriek_ of rusted hinges, and the prison-guard stepped out onto the Azkaban floor. He was a tall, grim-faced man, and he raised his wand into the air as he strode forward. All along the prison's walls, a thousand candles flickered into life.

"Time for the count!" the guard roared, his voice magically amplified to reach every corner of Azkaban's vast innards, every last cell - and every last sleeping prisoner. "Wake up, get up, and step outside your cells!"

Once more, the guard raised his wand into the air. A second later, his gesture was met by a colossal _clank_ , and the squealing of steel on stone as the cell doors of Azkaban slid open. Slowly, sullenly, the prisoners of Azkaban emerged from their cells. The guard, staring upwards at the steel-scaffold rows that seemed to stretch up almost to the sky, didn't need to count them. He knew this prison. He knew which cells were occupied and which weren't. He knew how many prisoners Azkaban currently held, how many murderers, rapists, shoplifters and smugglers these old walls imprisoned. And, this December morning, there were seven prisoners missing.

High above the prison guard, in the distant lofty reaches of row sixty-eight, were seven empty spaces, all in a row. The guard bellowed a fresh threat to the erstwhile prisoners, no doubt trying to sneak an extra few minutes of sleep. When after ten seconds he had received no response, the guard twirled on the spot. With a loud _pop_ , he disappeared into thin air to reappear a second later at the very end of row sixty-eight. Prisoners hurriedly backed out of his way as the guard barged along the row towards the empty spaces in the line, his boots rattling violently on the steel walkway. He shouted fresh threats all the while.

"If you haven't stepped out of those cells when I get along there..." Shoving a diminutive goblin with tear-drop tattoos below his eyes aside, the guard reached the first of the absentee prisoner's cells. "That's it, you're in for the beating of your life-"

But the guard never finished that sentence. As he steamed straight through the cell's open doorway, the words died in his throat. A young man in his early twenties dangled from the ceiling. His hair was ragged white-blonde, slicked back with grease and spit, and his feet swayed a foot above the ground. His eyes were wide, glazed-over, frozen in an expression of utmost terror. A noose around the young man's neck had choked the life from Scorpius Malfoy. The man - little more than a boy - had torn frantically at his neck, gouging at his skin with long untidy fingernails in an attempt to free himself, but it had been no good. Cursing, the guard staggered backwards out of the cell.

Azkaban erupted into frenzied mutters as the guard dashed along row sixty-eight, peering into each cell as he ran. In the next cell over, it was Draco Malfoy who swung from the rafters. In death, the fifty year-old man's ragged unshaven face was fixed in a look of abject fear. In the next cell was a brunette woman, her eyes unblinking and lifeless. The next, a dark-skinned man, similar in age to Draco Malfoy. The noose had burned deep purple-black bruises into the man's skin. On and on it went. Seven cells, seven bodies.

How could this have happened?

* * *

The colossal main foyer of Gringotts was abuzz with noise. Not merely the faint scratching of quills on ink, or hastily-stifled coughing, or the squeaking of shoe-heels on the polished-till-it-gleamed floor; Gringotts hummed with an angry, excited din this morning. Strange, small goblins, normally so reserved sitting behind their finely-made desks in their finely-made suits dashed from here to there, growling urgently to one another in Gobbledegook as they ran. In and out they came, popping out from little holes in the marble walls, whispering frantically to one another, then rushing away again.

However, the goblins were not the only creatures behaving strangely. Gringotts was packed with angry customers. Witches, wizards, hags and house-elves, they clustered around the goblin bank-tellers that lined the marble walls, shouting demands, screeching questions. One of the goblins, wizened and wrinkled with a shock of red-grey hair, was under siege from all sides; in front, three middle-aged witches harangued him loudly; to either side, his goblin coworkers - evidently in the middle of a ferocious argument - were shouting at each other; and behind the red-haired goblin, yet another of the little creatures was jabbering urgently in Gobbledegook.

One of the three middle-aged witches that had besieged the red-haired goblin's desk forced her way forwards, egged on by her two companions. She thrust an accusing sausage-like finger towards the goblin. "Lost all our money, 'ave you?" she screeched furiously. "Where is it? Where's our _money_?"

"Madam, I'm sorry," the red-haired goblin stammered. "There has been a break in. We are still determining which vaults have been affected. Until we do-"

"A _break in_?" she hooted derisively. Meekly, the goblin nodded, and scowling furiously, the middle-aged witch turned back to her two friends.

"What's 'appening?" they demanded.

"Lost all our money, aint' they?" she snapped, jerking her head violently over her shoulder towards the red-haired goblin. "Oddbod 'ere says there's been a break in. 'Alf the gold in Gringotts' been stolen."

"A break in?" one of her friends exclaimed. "But - how-"

The middle-aged witch shrugged imperiously. "Dunno, mate," she said. "Personally, like, I'd blame the goblins. Never liked them 'meself. Shifty little creatures."

* * *

Harper felt breath on the back of her neck. Her head whipped round - but there was no one there. Just the muted-grey walls of her office, and the freshly-written sign on her open office door that read _Junior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic._ She had been at the Ministry for three years. At the beginning, as a rather timid, nervous eighteen year-old, she'd worked as an intern under Zacharius Smith in some meaningless little department, pushing pens and filing papers. Putting that patented Slytherin cunning to good use, however, she'd risen rapidly up the ranks. Three years later, here she was, working under Hermione Granger, the Minister for Magic.

Sighing, shaking her head at her over-reaction to a wisp of wind, Harper spun back towards her desk - and saw it. A tiny slip of parchment, folded and folded and folded again, slipped surreptitiously beneath a blank sheet of parchment. Cautiously, Harper peered out her office door, glancing from side to side to ensure she was alone in her little cubicle. She eased her door shut, then picked up the little slip of parchment. _Remember your real friends, Harper_ , it read in a neat, strangely-familiar scrawl. _We'll be in touch._

Heart thumping nervously, Harper slipped the piece of parchment into her pocket. Again, as she sat at her desk, wondering, she felt the tingle on the back of her neck as if she were being watched; but again, there was nothing behind her but empty air. Shaking off her goosebumps, Harper forgot the mysterious message and got back to work.

* * *

It had all begun on that chaotic, nightmarish night at Hogwarts. Lily, Harry's little Lily, tortured at the hands of Tom Riddle. A boy dead. Riddle escaped into the night. Harry, Ron and Hermione had pursued him; together, they had searched every inch of the Forbidden Forest, but they had found no sign of the sixteen year-old. Even now, Harry felt a deep shameful sting of pain. If only he, or Hermione, or Ron had found Riddle, stopped the madness before it could go any further. Instead, James was gone too. Harry's oldest son had been missing for five years, as lost to the world as Riddle was. Still, Harry held out hope for James' safe return, but it was a faint flickering hope now, dampened by the years and the pain.

Afterwards, the public's reaction had been predictably furious. _You brought this monster to us_ , _Harry Potter_ , they had screamed. _You brought this monster to Hogwarts! Draco Malfoy was right! Free the Malfoys,_ the front-pages of the _Daily Prophet_ demanded. Harry and Kingsley had been forced to resign in disgrace. The only saving grace was that, as most of Hermione's work with Tom Riddle had been behind the scenes, she had escaped most of the ferocity. It had been a close-run thing, Hermione being tainted merely by her close association with Harry, but she had eventually been elected Minister for Magic.

In the months that followed, change had swept the wizarding world. Professor McGonagall retired, and Professor Slughorn too. Harry, ousted from his position as Head of the Auror Office, returned home to spend more time with his suddenly-reduced family. He was replaced by Ron. Kingsley Shacklebolt retired into obscurity. Draco Malfoy didn't get the release the _Daily Prophet_ so craved, and a year or two later the _Prophet_ 's editor, Mr. Hector, retired to massive public acclaim - and an Order of Merlin, First Class, of course. Hector had been an old man when he retired, and they said he soon descended into rabid paranoia, certain that Tom Riddle was lurking around every corner. He died a year later. His star reporter, Elizabeth Selwyn, disappeared in mysterious circumstances.

Harry had watched as first Albus and then Lily flew the nest. After leaving Hogwarts, Albus promptly married his school-sweetheart, found a cushy private-sector job and lived happily ever after. Already he had one child, a six-month old boy, and another was on the way. Lily had left Hogwarts a year later with exemplary grades. Following her Aunt Hermione's footsteps, she had taken a job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and for a while, as the years passed by, life had regained a semblance of normality.

And now this.

Harry sat in a cushy old armchair by the fire, the familiar old rag in his lap. The _Daily Prophet_ , the herald of bad news once more. So much bad news. _MALFOYS FOUND DEAD_ , the headline simply read today, accompanied by a dramatic thunder-and-lightning rendition of the tower of Azkaban. Who would have thought that news of a mass break-in at Gringotts would ever be relegated to the second page? Or the suicide of a well-off upstanding member of the community to the seventh? Poor Astoria Greengrass.

Suddenly the fury and the guilt and the shame were too much for Harry. His insides twisting agonisedly, nightmarishly, he tossed the _Prophet_ into the fire. For a long time, he stared blankly into its orange depths. He'd done this. He'd brought Tom Riddle into the world. He'd insisted the boy go to Hogwarts, that he be educated, that he be given a chance. Harry had introduced the boy to his children. He had defended Tom at every turn. How much blood was on Harry's hands now? How much more blood was to come?

Because, surely, Tom Riddle was back.


	21. The Minister

_The Minister_

* * *

This time, Hermione resolved, they would be prepared. Cornelius Fudge wasn't in charge this time; the Ministry was no longer the corrupt, immoral husk it had been in the earliest days of the Second Wizarding War. Hermione was Minister for Magic now and, under her charge and Kingsley's before her, the Ministry had become the force for good it was supposed to be. She had surrounded herself with good, loyal, clever people, people who would never dream of taking a bribe or scheming uprisings - or plotting murders. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was as strong as it had ever been. If Tom Riddle wanted to wage war, the Ministry was ready.

If it came to that.

But it was no good simply telling herself that, Hermione reflected as she sat in her spacious office on this bleak, chilly December morning. The news had broken yesterday; the murders at Azkaban, the break-in at Gringotts, the sabotage at the embassy of the International Confederation of Wizards - and who knew what else Tom Riddle was plotting? Hermione had to _act_ , and fast. First, reaching for her long-suffering eagle-feather quill, a wedding gift worn down from years of long service almost to the nub, she penned a letter to the managing director of Gringotts, an elderly goblin named Ragnok.

Hermione urged the goblins to increase their security measures, and offered them the use of one of the Ministry's trained security specialists in defending themselves. No doubt, she sighed, all she would receive in turn would be a snarky letter. She could picture it now; _of course we will increase our security, Miss Granger; that's generally what we do when we have a break-in. No need for your specialist, we're fine, thanks, bye._ Still, Gringotts had to be protected. Another robbery would be disastrous; the wizarding economy was fragile enough as it was without vast quantities of gold disappearing.

Hermione penned similar letters to St. Mungo's, Hogwarts and Azkaban, then set her quill down. "Harper?" she called.

A few seconds later the door to Hermione's office swung open, and Hermione's secretary popped her head through the door. "Yes, Minister?" Harper asked. The girl, barely in her twenties, had her jet-black hair drawn up in a bun this morning. She was pretty, long-legged and slender, with haughtily elegant features, and her expression was eager-to-please. She was a good worker, very clever, very sharp, always hard-working; exactly the sort of person Hermione needed in her Ministry.

"Could you find Ron, please?" Hermione asked. "I need to see him."

Harper hesitated uncertainly. "Head of Auror Office Ron?"

Hermione resisted a bemused smile. "Yes, that Ron." _Husband Ron._ "Oh, and could you send these letters please, Harper?"

"Of course, Minister," the girl replied dutifully. She bustled forward into the room, swept Hermione's four neatly-pressed envelopes into her arms, then promptly hurried out again. Five minutes later, Ron's red-haired head - though all these years later, the red was growing more and more flecked with grey - poked out of the roaring fireplace to Hermione's left.

"You called?"

Hermione smiled. "I need to talk to you."

"Ah. Sounds serious." Straightening, Ron stepped out of the fireplace, his plain-black work robes slightly tinged with soot. "Is it about my birthday?"

"Sadly, no," said Hermione. She leaned forward pointedly as Ron slouched into a hard-backed wooden seat on the far side of her desk. "It's about Tom Riddle."

"Ah," Ron said simply. "The talk of the Ministry." He jerked a thumb vaguely in the direction of the outside world. "Half of them are convinced he's going to be hiding under their bed when they get home tonight." He paused, his tone darkening - almost imperceptible, but Hermione knew her husband too well. "You're sure he's back, then?"

"What other explanation can there be?" Hermione shivered. "Draco and Scorpius Malfoy..."

"Suicide pact?" Ron suggested without conviction.

"I don't think so," Hermione said, shaking her head grimly. "Tom Riddle's back in town, it's obvious. He's already murdered seven people and stolen fifty thousand Galleons. He's up to something big. Ron, I need you to find him."

"Little Voldy Junior?"

"Use your Aurors," Hermione said. "This is top priority. Get as many people as you can spare out looking for Riddle."

"Sure, Hermione." He paused a moment, as if waiting for Hermione to reply. She didn't. "Oh, you want me to do it _now_."

"Thanks, Ron." Hermione wished they could speak longer, but she had a thousand and one things to do today.

As her husband stepped towards the fireplace, a clump of Floo powder in his hand, he glanced over his shoulder. "Remember dinner tonight," he called, stooping slightly into the brilliant-green flames. "I'm cooking. Seven o'clock. Rose and Hugo are coming. Don't spend all night here."

"I'll be there," Hermione promised, and Ron disappeared with a flash.

Not five seconds later, Lily burst through Hermione's ajar office door. Her pale cheeks were flushed, Hermione's twenty-one year old niece, and her bright-brown eyes, so like her mother's, were blazing as fiercely as her flame-red hair. "Is it true, Aunt Hermione?" she demanded, striding forwards into the room clad in the midnight-blue robes of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. "What they're saying all over the Ministry?"

Lily's lip quivered slightly, and for the slightest instant she was eleven again, her big brown eyes brimming with something that was almost - pleading. "Is he back?"

Hermione eyed her niece cautiously for a long moment before she replied. "We think so, yes," she admitted.

Numbly, Lily sank into the same seat her uncle Ron had vacated not a minute earlier. Behind the young red-haired woman, Hermione's office door hung open; with a flick of her wand, it swung shut, and Hermione leaned forward to address Lily. "Are you OK?" she asked softly.

"I'm fine," Lily replied in an artificially-cool voice. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Lily-"

"I'm OK, Aunt Hermione. Really." Lily forced a reassuring smile, though the gesture plainly pained her. Her eyes were flitting rapidly around the room, and she was obviously deeply troubled by the news. Abruptly, she leapt to her feet. "I'll just go, then-"

"Please sit down, Lily," Hermione said as her niece turned towards the door. "Actually I needed to talk to you about - about Riddle." Hermione couldn't quite bring herself to call him _Tom_.

Uncertainly, Lily took a seat. "Er - OK. About Ministry security," Hermione began. "It needs stepped up immediately. I want you to see to it, Lily."

"Sure," Lily said in a small distracted voice. "Have you - have you got any ideas?"

"First things first, no more Apparition," Hermione said. "You should put Anti-Apparition spells on every inch of the Ministry. The Floo network, too. Disconnect every fireplace in the Ministry. No one should be able to get in here unless they have an entrance pass issued by us."

Lily nodded thoughtfully. "How will people get to work?"

"Well, the last time - er - this sort of thing happened, Ministry workers had to - well, flush themselves in."

Lily grinned. "Yeah, Dad told me about that once. I'll try and think of something less gross. And about those entrance passes - I know a useful charm that we could use. It would mean that each pass could only be used by the person it was issued to. If anyone else tried to..." the corners of Lily's mouth twitched upwards. "Well, it would be messy."

"Good idea," Hermione said. "Wherever you decide to put the new entrance, make sure it's under supervision twenty-four hours a day. Secrecy Sensors, Sneakoscopes, that sort of thing. Scan everyone as they enter. We don't know how potent Riddle is with disguising spells, or invisibility charms - it could be he'd try to sneak into the Ministry that way." _Could be he already has._

Lily's nose crinkled in distaste. "Yeah, that sounds like him. Sneaky."

"Yes, well...good luck, anyway," Hermione finished rather awkwardly. "Try and get it done as soon as possible."

"It'll be ready by the end of the day," Lily promised.

"Thanks, Lily," she said. "One more thing - if you don't mind, that is," Hermione added hastily.

"Fire away."

"You've probably spent the most time with To - I mean, Riddle - as any of us, Lily," Hermione said hesitantly.

Lily shrugged uncomfortably, and she couldn't disguise the momentary flash of hurt in her eyes. "I guess," she admitted finally. "We used to talk a lot when we were young, but..." she shrugged again. "That was before the attack. When he was stabbed in Diagon Alley." Her face darkened. "He - he changed after that." Lily glanced over her shoulder towards Hermione's closed office door. "Your secretary, that Harriet girl - or whatever her name is - she spent a lot of time with Tom. I think they even dated for a while. Talk to her."

"I have," Hermione sighed. "She doesn't know very much. Nothing helpful, anyway. I get the feeling she was a little in awe of Riddle; besides, from what she says, she's like you - her and Riddle barely talked after the attack in Diagon Alley." Lily looked momentarily uncomfortable again, and Hermione remembered with a pang that Lily, too, had been in that alleyway on that day. What a complicated, twisted, horrible situation this was. "Harper can't tell me what I need to know."

"Which is..."

"What _is_ Tom Riddle?"

"He's a murdering bastard," said Lily.

"Yes, but... you've heard your dad's story, right?" Hermione asked. "About how he found Riddle in a cave?"

"Yeah."

"My point," said Hermione, "is that we still don't know _why_. We don't know why Riddle was in that cave - we never did. Somewhere between the attacks, the fighting, the constant articles in the _Prophet_ , we just forgot about it. We don't know _what_ he is."

"And you want to find out."

"Yes, Lily. Is there anything, _anything_ useful you can tell me about him? Did he ever mention - I don't know, memories he shouldn't have had? Visions? Did he ever mention Voldemort?"

But Lily shook her head. "I'm sorry, Aunt Hermione, I - I just don't remember much of it. I've tried to forget it, ever since..." she trailed off darkly. Her face made it plain that she didn't want to talk about Riddle any longer.

"It's OK," Hermione assured her quickly. She had other lines of investigation into the nature of Tom Riddle, anyway - starting with two appointments after lunch. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was getting on towards twelve. "You want to get some lunch?"

"Sorry, I'd better get to work," Lily sighed, rising to her feet. "The sooner I know Tom isn't lurking invisible behind my back, the better." As she stepped to the door, Lily glanced over her shoulder towards Hermione. "If he's back, Aunt Hermione... what does that mean for James?"

Hermione could only shake her head helplessly. As her office door swung shut, she began to write another letter.

* * *

The Department of Mysteries was exactly as Hermione remembered it. It began with a darkened circular entrance chamber. The floor was dark marble, and the candles on the black-stone walls flickered with a cool blue light. Twelve seemingly-identical doors lined the walls. This time, however, Hermione knew which door to take. Crossing the room, she entered the third door on the left and stepped into a long rectangular chamber lit by low-hanging lamps. In the centre of the chamber was a long, shallow water-tank. Swimming through the blue-green murk were brains. Big, grey, with tendrils that floated behind them as they swam, eerily like the trailing robes of a Dementor in flight.

A man crouched over the water-tank. Professor Croaker was elderly, bald but for a narrow tuft of grey-white hair, and he peered at the brains thoughtfully through thick-rimmed spectacles. Behind the glass, his eyes were a milky-blue. He wore a long white laboratory-coat; pinned to his lapel was the insignia of the Unspeakables. "Professor Croaker?" Hermione called, stepping further into the gloomily-lit room. She made sure to give the brain-tank a wide berth. "Can I speak with you?"

"Minister?" Croaker exclaimed in a pleasantly-surprised voice. Hurriedly, the old man straightened. As he stepped away from the tank, Hermione noticed his hands were dripping with brain mucus. "What brings you down here? Take a seat, take a seat," he urged amicably, drying his hands on a scruffy-white towel as he sank onto a three-legged wooden stool.

"No thanks, I won't keep you long," Hermione replied politely. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions, Professor. Theoretical magic is your expertise, yes?"

Croaker nodded. "Go on, Minister."

"OK." Hermione took a deep breath. "It's about Dark magic. You've studied Dark magic, Professor?"

"In excruciating detail, I can assure you," Croaker replied with a small knowing half-smile.

"Well, in your opinion, would it be possible to - er - create another being with Dark magic?" she asked.

Comprehension dawned in Croaker's pale-blue eyes. "Ah. Riddle." As Hermione nodded, Croaker continued. "His very name gives the truth to his nature, I am afraid, Minister. You have to understand that Lord Voldemort's work with the Dark Arts was truly, truly unprecedented. Who knows how far his experiments stretched? He was a secretive, mistrustful man, and we know almost nothing of his work." Croaker sighed sadly. "He was not an academic man, alas. He cared not for the research, only for the power it gave him."

"Yes, but-"

"Possible, yes," Croaker interrupted smoothly. "We create life every time we conjure a rabbit from a hat, or enchant a piece of paper, Minister. Life is not the historical impossibility; death is. To answer your question, yes. I feel that it is most likely that Lord Voldemort created Tom Riddle from his own essence."

That was as Hermione had thought, but to have it confirmed... with sudden, gnawing shame, she wondered how she and Harry could ever have introduced Riddle to the wizarding world. _We always knew. We always knew there was something strange about him, something wrong, and we did nothing to find out what_.

"Minister?"

Hermione snapped back to reality. "What do you make of the way Riddle was found, Professor?" she asked curiously, covering up her momentary despair as best she could. "In an enchanted trance, still physically eleven years old after all this time..."

"I _do_ have a theory, Minister - though keep in mind this is wild conjecture. I think, at the time of Riddle's - well, _conception_ , for want of a better word - Lord Voldemort was reminiscing of his early schooldays. Therefore, when his essence took form, it took the shape of an eleven year-old boy ready to attend his first year at Hogwarts."

"I don't think Voldemort ever reminisced, Professor," Hermione said doubtfully.

"Perhaps not," Croaker admitted. "Perhaps preoccupied is a better word. Fixated."

Silently, Hermione thought of what Harry had told her of Voldemort's Horcruxes - and, in particular, the diadem, and Voldemort's trip into Hogwarts to conceal it within the Room of Requirement. Yes, he might have been _preoccupied_ with thoughts of Hogwarts then. "Perhaps," she admitted. Soon though, another question occurred to her. "Why the trance, then?"

"Again, this is merely conjecture, but I feel Riddle may have been an accident. An experiment gone wrong - but _wonderfully_ wrong! Lord Voldemort may not have wanted Riddle around - he was possible competition, a potential rival - but I doubt he could bring himself to destroy the boy. No," said Croaker, "he placed Riddle into a trance from which he would not stir, would not age, until he could find a use for the boy."

"And now he's awake," Hermione finished. "Why now?"

"As for that, I cannot answer," Croaker said. "I suspect you'd have to ask your friend Harry Potter for answers there."

Hermione chewed that over for a moment, then readied herself to ask her last question. The question on everyone's mind. "Professor, do you think there's a possibility some remnant of Voldemort's soul is working through Riddle?"

"Well, Minister," Croaker said, smiling kindly, "that's the big question, isn't it? We have two distinct possibilities. Either a fragment of Lord Voldemort's soul is working through Riddle - or that nice, kind, innocent young boy you knew ten years ago is performing these atrocities of his own free agency." He grinned helplessly. "Now, which of those is the more frightening proposition?"

This was followed by a moment's silence. "Not the answers you were looking for, Minister?" Croaker prompted.

"No, it's..." Hermione sighed. "I suppose I was hoping for some easy way out. Some weakness, some quick bloodless way to stop Riddle."

Croaker smiled a warm grandfatherly smile. "Not this time, Minister."

* * *

"Harry."

As Hermione stepped from the brilliant-green flames, Harry Potter looked up from his cushy old armchair. He looked awful. His green eyes were bloodshot, his face was unshaven, and his scar was blazing, a thin jagged blood-red line across Harry's temple. Obviously, it was hurting again. As Hermione stepped forward from the fireplace, dusting soot from the shoulders of her light-blue robes, the flames returned to their usual crimson. Lily hadn't gotten around to turning the Floo Network off yet, evidently. It didn't matter. After this, Hermione would Apparate home, to Ron and her children, and dinner.

"Hermione?" Harry muttered weakly, rising to his feet. "Let me get you some tea, or-"

"How's your scar?" she interrupted pointedly, and Harry sank back into his armchair.

"Bad," he admitted, rubbing a hand against his forehead. "Maybe it's just that with time I've forgotten, I dunno, but it never felt half as bad back then as it does now."

Perching on the arm of Harry's chair, Hermione placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. "It's not your fault, you know." Harry said nothing, though his tormented green eyes spoke the truths Hermione knew too - it _was_ their fault. They had brought Riddle into the world. "Harry, I have to know," she asked softly. "Where, _precisely_ , did you find Riddle?"

Harry's head jerked, almost imperceptibly, as if swatting away an annoying fly. For so many years he had avoided, ignored or otherwise dodged the subject. Now, however, he _had_ to confess. Harry surely knew that. "It was a - a tower," he admitted in a raspy whisper. "On an island. I'd - I'd been dreaming about it for months."

"Why didn't you _tell us_?" Hermione demanded, flabbergasted.

"I thought - thought you might worry."

" _Worry_? Of course we'd be _worried_!" Hermione exclaimed. "Dreaming about - about that isn't normal! Didn't you learn anything with what happened to Sirius?"

If it were possible, Harry's face darkened. "I guess not."

"Harry..." Hermione began, ready to issue words of comfort - but for some reason, all she said was "I need to see that tower. Tomorrow, can you take me there?"

Weakly, Harry nodded. As Hermione said her goodbyes, and disappeared with a loud _pop_ from the Potters' front room, one thought troubled her, one question still unanswered; _why now?_ Why, after all these years, had Harry suddenly begun to dream of towers in the sea? Had Riddle sent the dreams? Voldemort? Perhaps seeing the tower would yield some answers. Until then, she would enjoy a few precious hours with her family, and pretend that all was well.


	22. Roses, Lilies and Thorns

_Roses, Lilies and Thorns_

* * *

The streets of London were as busy as ever. The pothole-riddled roads were gridlocked, red double-decker buses and black taxis and cyclists and everyone else all fighting tooth and nail for their own little inch of the tarmac. The narrow puddle-dashed pavements were packed with weekday shoppers, wrapped up against the December cold in scarves and gloves and shawls. Christmas was coming, after all, and the Muggle world had no idea that the son of the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time was on the loose. Lily and Rose Weasley, heads bowed in a vain attempt to shield from the cold and rain, wore thick knee-length Muggle jackets as they battled through the crowds.

Though the crowds were thick, Lily could spot a few other witches and wizards here and there among the Muggles - generally, those few that were less diligently disguised than she and her cousin. One tall man's light-blue Magical Maintenance robes were poorly hidden beneath an overcoat while another, red-haired and portly, wore a pin-striped Muggle suit, but had evidently forgotten to remove his pointed wizard's hat. All were heading in the same direction - towards the Underground station at the end of the street.

A hand-painted sign was hung across the station's closed iron gates; _Closed For Refurbishment._ Beyond the sign, rain-soaked white-stone stairs descended into the station proper. As Lily and Rose trudged through the rain, hundreds of Muggles passed the Underground station every minute, but not one glanced in its direction. Lily had worked her spells well. Together, she and her cousin stepped straight _through_ the _Closed For Refurbishment_ sign, through the iron gates and down the stairs to emerge into a crowded, chilly holding-room packed with Ministry workers.

A slow-moving queue zig-zagged from the entrance where Rose and Lily stood to a narrow set of turnstiles on the far side of the room. The turnstile's heavy steel bars were flanked by a pair of scowling security wizards. Sighing exasperatedly, Lily realised there was at least fifty people in the queue before her and her cousin; they might be here a while. Grudgingly, they joined the back of the queue. As Lily and Rose stepped forward, the ruby-robed witch immediately before them in the queue half-turned towards her - and, for an instant, Lily's heart stopped.

She had just seen a ghost. The high, elegant cheekbones, the straight lustrous raven-black hair, the skin as pale as milk - but this young woman's eyes were hazel ovals, not crimson slits. They lingered on Lily for a moment - curious, thoughtful eyes - and then the black-haired witch in ruby-red robes turned away again. There was a glimmer of recognition in the black-haired witch's eyes, though Lily was sure she didn't know this woman who so reminded her of Tom Riddle. Shrugging inwardly, Lily put the strange moment aside.

At the front of the long, snaking queue, the red-haired wizard in the pin-striped suit Lily had seen outside the station earlier stepped forward towards the turnstile. His path was promptly blocked by an upraised arm from one of the security wizards, who growled something inaudible; immediately, the red-haired wizard hurriedly flapped through his many pockets until he found what Lily recognised as one of her Ministry-issued identification cards. Peering at it, the security wizard nodded, then gestured to his grim-faced companion. The other security wizard stepped forward, a long probe-like Secrecy Sensor in his hand. The device, purchased from the International Confederation of Wizards at eye-watering cost, would detect - and dispel - any concealment charms known to wizardkind.

Rose Weasley, standing beside Lily at the back of the queue, followed her younger cousin's gaze as the security wizard swept his Secrecy Sensor through the air. "Grim in here, isn't it?" she commented.

"People are scared, Rose." It was true. Ahead, as the red-haired man finally stepped through the steel-barred turnstile, his relief was almost radiating off him. A nervous tension was palpable in the air, as if the Ministry's workers expected Tom Riddle to pop out from the shadows at any moment. Curiously, the pale-skinned woman in front of Lily and Rose in the queue seemed almost relaxed, whistling nonchalantly to herself as she waited. "Tom's out there, _somewhere_ , and as far as we know, he holds a personal grudge against the entire wizarding world."

"You think he does?" Rose asked uncertainly. "He always seemed - well..."

 _Nice, Rose? Did he seem nice? Kind? Caring? "_ You didn't hear him that night," Lily said. Both cousins knew which night she spoke of - that one at Hogwarts, five years ago, when the world had turned upside down. "He's crazy. Delusional. He blames the wizarding world for - well, everything, really."

"What's happening with that, anyway?" Rose asked. Working as she did in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Rose wasn't exactly in the loop about Tom. "The investigation?"

"Not much," Lily admitted. "We went to see the tower yesterday. You know, the one where my Dad found Tom." At the mention of Tom, the black-haired witch's head twitched, ever so slightly, but Lily paid it no heed. "It was weird."

"Weird how?"

"Well, Aunt Hermione couldn't see it at all, for a start," Lily said. "I mean, what's the deal with that? How do you not see a bloody great five hundred foot-tall tower?"

"Maybe Mum's losing her eyesight," Rose giggled.

"I wish," said Lily. "Me and Dad could see it, but everyone else there... a big fat nothing. Dad tried to lead them inside, but the tower wouldn't even open for him."

"What did it look like?" Rose asked curiously.

"Big. Black. Creepy." Even just thinking of it now, Lily's skin crawled. The way, when she stood in the tower's shadow, she could _feel_ its icy tendrils clawing at her insides, tearing at everything that was warm and good and happy... "It didn't look like anyone had been there recently, anyway."

"I wonder why only you and Uncle Harry could see it," Rose commented.

"Beats me," said Lily, shrugging. "This Professor guy that was there - an Unspeakable - he said it might have been some variant of the Fidelius Charm. But who knows? Everything to do with Tom is one big bundle of weird."

For some reason, Rose gave Lily a worried glance at the mention of the Fidelius Charm. "You know, Lily, I've been thinking - well, it might be a good idea if we were to put the Fidelius Charm on our flat."

"Why?"

"Because Tom had a thing for you in school," Rose said softly. "You didn't talk to him when he came back after the attack. I wanted you to, but you didn't. I _did_ talk to him, and he seemed pretty hurt about it. He _really_ wanted to see you. If I hadn't stepped in, he might have fought Hugo and Roger to try and get past them."

"You should have let them," Lily said angrily. _So what if I didn't talk to Tom? Ignored him? Abandoned him? How dare Rose throw that in my face now?_ "You should have let them beat that murderer up."

"Well, anyway - my point is, Tom's already tried to kill you once," Rose said calmly. "I'm worried about you, Lily."

"I..." but as Rose stared insistently - fearfully - at her younger cousin, Lily trailed off. "I don't know. Maybe."

As they shuffled forwards in the queue, Lily found herself picturing it in her mind's eye; _him_ , leaping from the shadows while she ate her dinner, or showered, or - or slept. _Good idea, Rosey_ , she thought suddenly, skin crawling as violently as it had when she stood before the tower. _A very good idea._

They were nearing the front of the queue now, Lily and Rose, after ten long minutes of waiting. In front of the red-headed duo, the strange unfamiliar black-haired witch who had so unsettled Lily earlier stepped forward towards the turnstile. As the first security wizard, tall and menacing, stepped forward, arms raised, the pale-skinned witch patted her pockets ineffectively. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she simpered. "I think I've forgotten my pass. Could I please-"

"No pass, no entry," the security wizard rumbled. "Step aside."

"Oh, _please_?"

"Step aside!" he snapped again.

Rolling her eyes, the pale-skinned witch turned her pleas to the other security wizard, watching on uncertainly. "You seem like a nice young man," she said, stepping quickly towards him. "Surely you can see-"

As she stepped towards him, the security wizard raised his arms in a gesture that was part warning, part helplessness - and the Secrecy Sensor was still clutched in his hand. The hairs on the back of Lily's neck prickled in premonition - and then a wailing, shrieking eardrum-shattering klaxon began to scream. _The Secrecy Sensor_ , Lily thought in a wild panic, already reaching for her wand - but she was too late. The pale-skinned witch's hazel eyes flickered once, then were replaced by amused, gleaming crimson slits.

"Very well," she sighed.

Before Lily could so much as twitch a finger, the ruby-eyed witch had drawn her wand, levelled it at the nearest security wizard's chest in a fluid, elegant movement and - with a colossal _bang_ \- blasted a hole through the security wizard's chest. Swivelling, she dismissed the other astonished security wizard with a lazy sweep of her wand, then dashed forward towards the turnstile. Lily was fastest to react. As one already-dead security wizard slumped to the ground and another hit the white-tiled walls with a bone-breaking _thump_ she fired a Stunner towards the black-haired witch - but then something unexpected happened.

As the pale-skinned witch made to leap over the steel turnstiles into the Ministry proper, she crashed into an invisible barrier, and the air exploded with luminous-blue electricity. She fell to the ground, screaming, her entire body a crackle of electric sparks, and Lily's Stunner flashed harmlessly over the red-eyed witch's head. Lily's barrier had done its job, she thought for a moment, as the pale-skinned witch writhed on the ground, and the holding-room descended into madness behind her - but then, with an indecipherable, animalistic yell, and a wild slash of her wand, the electric sparks disappeared. Lily gaped as, singed flesh smoking slightly, the red-eyed witch rose to her feet.

Turning, she fixed Lily with a half-curious, half-amused stare. "Tom?" Lily asked uncertainly. "You're prettier than I remember."

At that, the ruby-eyed witch grinned. "You must be his dear Lily," she said in a cold, mocking voice. Her crimson eyes flitted, for the briefest instant, to Rose as she stepped to Lily's side, wand in hand, then returned to Lily.

"And what do they call you?" Lily asked. "Lady Voldemort?"

"He calls me Elizabeth." The red-eyed witch - Elizabeth - glanced over Lily's shoulder to where the rest of the Ministry workers stood, frozen in fear, uncertain whether to flee or fight. "To you-"

" _Now_!" Lily yelled, raising her wand to strike.

Simultaneously, she and Rose fired two bright-red Stunners towards Elizabeth. The black-haired witch danced past Lily's, then reflected Rose's back towards her with a wordless Shield Charm. Lily's twenty-two year-old cousin ducked reflexively, and the reflected-red bolt flashed past to knock two Magical Maintenance wizards to the floor. "Get out of here!" Lily shouted over her shoulder. "Rose and I will-"

Elizabeth slashed her wand towards Lily, and suddenly Lily's tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. The crimson-eyed witch laughed cruelly as Lily slurred an exclamation of surprise. " _Finite Incantatem_ ," said Rose quickly, and Lily's tongue came unstuck.

Ten feet away, Elizabeth scowled. "You're no fun." She slashed her wand towards Rose, and Lily's cousin winced in pain as a wicked three-inch long wound appeared on her cheek. Rose had barely had time to blink, never mind get a Shield Charm up. "Who are you, then? One of the weasels?"

" _Impedimenta_!" Rose yelled, at the same instant as Lily blasted a Body-Bind Curse towards the black-haired witch.

Elizabeth deflected them into the ceiling with ease. "Silly weasels shouting words they don't understand," she laughed maliciously. "Didn't Mummy and Daddy teach you how to fight?"

Lily raised her wand. " _Incarcerous_!"

But even as the biting, twisting ropes flew from the end of Lily's wand towards the crimson-eyed witch, they melted and turned to water, and then reformed into an icy shard that stabbed towards Rose's chest with a lazy flick of Elizabeth's wand. Yelling, Lily pushed Rose aside, and the two red-haired women tumbled to the floor.

"How boring," Elizabeth said as they scrambled to their feet. "I expected better from-"

" _STUPEF-"_

Without warning, Elizabeth raised her wand into the air. There was a _bang,_ like a gunshot, the very floor trembled, and a streak of silver light flashed from the tip of Elizabeth's wand. The beam screamed around the cramped underground room, ricocheting off walls and tiles and bodies. It hit a floor tile - knocked a woman off her feet - smashed off the roof, throwing up great swathes of dust - flew towards Lily - and, too late, she ducked.

The silver beam hit Lily in the face like a sledgehammer. Her neck snapped back, and she crumpled to the ground with a scream of agony. As she fell, her head cracked back against the stone tiles and, with a blinding jolt of pain, darkness rushed in. The last thing she saw was Elizabeth, cackling, firing curses indiscriminately into the fleeing crowd.

 _Rose_?

* * *

When Lily woke, the air was thick with screams, and fear, and blood. The white-tiled floor was strewn with bodies. Rivulets of blood trickled between the tiles, so that the floor looked like so many white islands on a sea of blood. The air was choked with dust and smoke. Two figures loomed out of the darkness, their footsteps _tapping_ and _splashing_ lightly as they approached. Their crimson eyes, so alike, seemed to almost glow in the blood-red gloom. Feebly, Lily tried to rise, but she did not have the strength.

"Hello, Lily," Tom said softly, stepping over Rose's body to stand over the fallen Lily. He gazed down at her, a grown man now in tattered-black robes, his jet-black hair no longer the boyish, tousled mess it had once been, his skin pale and cold. His scarlet eyes were steely and bleak while, beside him, Elizabeth's eyes glittered with gleeful malice. "Pleased to see me?"

Lily's bright-brown eyes slowly slid from Tom to the girl who stood beside him. She was tall, lithe, beautiful in a cold, insane sort of way, her lips curved upwards in a hateful, happy grin. "This your new girlfriend?" she spat.

Tom smiled wryly. "Sister, actually - although if you want to be picky, it's more of a two-sides-of-the-same-coin sort of thing. Twins, you could call it. Lily, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth, Lily Potter."

Lily tried to convey her utter revulsion - her violent, pulsing hatred of the two figures looming over her - with a glance. She didn't think she quite managed it. Smiling thinly at Lily's expression, Tom opened his mouth to speak again - but he was interrupted by a loud _bang_ from below. He flashed a sidelong glance at Elizabeth and, smiling, she stalked off into the darkness.

"Let me guess," Lily called as Tom turned back towards her. That noise had to be from the Ministry below; even now, the Aurors would be on their way, Uncle Ron, maybe even Aunt Hermione; Lily just had to stay alive until then. "She's another test tube baby."

"She's like me, if that's what you mean," Tom said. "She grew up in darkness. She had nothing, just like me. No friends, no family, not even a name."

"So why Elizabeth?"

"Elizabeth was the first person she ever killed," he said. Abruptly, Tom sank into a crouch beside Lily. When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly soft. "Lily, come with me now, and I promise I'll stop. Please."

" _What_?" Lily sputtered incredulously. "After _everything_ you've done, you think I would ever..." but Lily didn't finish that sentence. A horrible thought had just _clunked_ to the forefront of her mind, the one she had been dreading for so, so long. "Tom," she murmured in a small, scared voice. "What did you do to James?"

At the mention of her brother's name, there was a flash of - _something_ \- in Tom's bleak scarlet eyes. Some shred of humanity; some glint of fear, or anger, or doubt. "I killed him," Tom quietly admitted.

Lily reached for her wand. Before she could even find it, there was a flash of red light, and her wand went spinning off into the darkness - but she found she didn't particularly care. James was dead. Rose too. Next, she dived at Tom's throat with her bare hands, but he just hopped back a step or two, and was maddeningly out of reach.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. His eyes found Lily's again, and momentarily he baulked at the sheer ferocity he found there. "Lily, I love you."

"You murdered my brother."

"Lily, if you come with me, I can give you everything you ever wanted-"

Lily spat in his face. When Tom, scowling, wiped it away, the steel had returned to his eyes. "You're utterly insane," she whispered hatefully as he gazed at her. "How could you possibly think - you're delusional. You're insane."

All Tom did was raise a long pale finger to his lips. Lily opened her mouth to deliver an angry rebuttal - but then she heard it. Far below the pair, she could hear the distant rumblings of wand-fire, and the thunder of footsteps. "The cavalry's coming," Tom whispered with a thin smile. As abruptly as he had crouched, he straightened. Glancing to his right, he saw Rose's body, and tutted sadly. Rose's face was icy-pale, and her hands were clutched to her stomach, to the gaping hole where blood still oozed from her in long, lazy pulses. Her eyes were glazed and lifeless.

"Such a waste," said Tom, closing Rose's eyes with a lazy flick of his wand. "I always liked Rose. But this will happen again and again, Lily, until we get what we want."

"What do you want, Tom?" Lily hissed poisonously. "What does that freakish sister of yours _want_?"

"Who knows what Elizabeth wants?" Tom said, shrugging easily. "Some days she wants to rule the world, some days she just wants to destroy it." Tom grinned. "But you've got to love your family, right?"

"What do _you_ want?"

Tom opened his mouth as if to speak - but then closed it again. "Tom, you don't have to be like her," Lily continued desperately. _They must be nearly here by now, Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione. They must be._ "Voldemort made you, but-"

" _No_!" Tom yelled suddenly, his voice for the first time crackling with anger. "You made me. Your world, with its hatred, and its disgust, and its fear made me. None of you seem to understand _that_!"

Another bang, very close now, and Elizabeth stepped from the shadows. As brother and sister linked arms, two pairs of gleaming scarlet eyes turned to Lily. Tom winked. "Be seeing you," he called as, together, they turned and disappeared with a loud _pop_. Lily suddenly felt very weak. It took all the energy she had to crawl into her cousin's arms.

As Aurors flooded the room, and familiar faces asked Lily questions she didn't understand, and waved their wands in front of her face, she broke down into renewed shoulder-wrenching sobs. James was dead, Rose too, and Roger, and countless others, and it had barely begun. Even Tom was gone. Sweet little Tom, making up spells in his spare time and showing them off to Lily. Her friend.

Lily fell into disturbed dreams.


	23. Family

_Family_

* * *

"That was fun," Elizabeth sighed happily, as they _popped_ from thin air to land on soft mossy moorland. Elizabeth strode forwards towards the tower, her wand hand outstretched towards the cold black stone. At her gesture the stone melted away, and a slitted gash appeared in the tower's side. Elizabeth took three steps inside before she realised Tom wasn't following. His sister paused in the doorway, her elegant, wispy black robes fluttering in the breeze behind her, her crimson eyes gleaming prettily in the twilight.

"Tom?" she called. Her voice was surprisingly soft. Elizabeth may have been the living embodiment of a long-dead Dark Lord, a twisted creature born from malice and Dark magic, but she _did_ love her brother. "Are you well?"

"What? Oh - yeah, I'm fine - I'm well."

"Good," she said, smiling sweetly. Innocently. _Killing comes naturally to her_ , Tom thought. _She was born this way. Created this way. To her, killing is no more unnatural than breathing_. Sometimes, Tom envied her. His was a harder way, strewn with hate and anger and pain. "Shall we, Tom?"

"Sure," he said. Tom took Elizabeth's proffered hand and, together, they stepped inside the flickering-green darkness of the tower. Her hands were icy-cold. Behind the two siblings, the organic black stone sealed itself once more and, as he always was, Tom was reminded of the first time he had stepped inside these walls, five long years ago.

* * *

"I want to bury him."

" _Bury him_?" the strange girl scoffed in a high, cold voice. Tom felt, rather than heard, her approach. She sidled up behind him, her bare feet silent on the hard stone floor. Her long pale fingers found Tom's hand and when she whispered in his ear, Tom could feel her cold breath on his skin. " _Vaporise_ him. Turn him to dust, and be done with it, brother."

Seconds passed, and Tom still stared down at the lifeless body of James Potter. The fear had not quite left James' eyes. _I killed him. I really killed him._ "No," he said eventually, shifting in her arms to meet her ruby-red eyes. "I - I should bury him." _Lily would want me to._

"As you wish," the strange woman sighed, slipping away from Tom's side. "Just be quick about it, Tom. We have much business to discuss."

Tom gaped at the teenage girl who spoke so authoritatively to him. "What business?" he demanded, stepping away from James' corpse towards her. "Who _are_ you? You call me brother, but..."

"Bury your little friend, Tom," she told him, her voice a husky breath of wind. "Then we shall talk."

* * *

Tom had buried James Potter beneath a scraggly holly bush, he recalled - though he doubted he could find the correct bush now, after all this time, and anyway, beneath the ground James' body had surely long since rotted to dust. Before him, Elizabeth was striding forwards into the tower's vast innards. When he had first came here, there had been only one room - the chamber in which Elizabeth had been chained, and the staircase which lead to it - but now, together, he and Elizabeth had shaped the tower to their needs.

In these walls, they had everything they might ever need; broomsticks, bathtubs full to the brim with churning potions - the Draught of Living Death, Polyjuice Potion, Veritaserum, Essence of Dittany and Felix Felicis among them - Ministry robes of every size, shape and colour, piles and piles of spellbooks, some ancient, some cursed, some long thought lost to the world; three Invisibility Cloaks woven from Demiguise hair, plans and schematics and diagrams, a veritable mountain of gold, and even a caged Chimaera. Elizabeth was desperate to set it loose in Diagon Alley.

Tom followed his sister as she strode purposefully forwards through the warren of tunnels. To his left, as they walked, was his meagre bedroom, a gloomy claustrophobic hole furnished only with a cold bed of volcanic-stone. Elizabeth didn't have a bedroom; she didn't seem to sleep. Or eat or drink, for that matter. She seemed to find Tom's human needs very amusing. Even now whenever - as they worked late into the night, heads bowed over moth-eaten rolls of parchment in the flickering candlelight - Tom yawned, or his eyelids drooped tiredly, she would chuckle affectionately and look at Tom rather as if he were some clumsy little dog that had just ran into a door.

Beyond his bedroom the low-roofed claustrophobic tunnel expanded into a larger chamber. Here the air was warmer, as a fire burned in the hearth, and Tom gratefully sunk into a cushy armchair by the flames. It had been a long, busy day, after all. All around him, piles of faded-yellow parchments climbed unsteadily towards the ceiling. In one distant corner, sturdy wooden shelves creaked under the weight of hundreds and hundreds of dusty potion bottles. Each was marked by Tom's neat, florid penmanship, or Elizabeth's untidy scrawl. Each might be necessary in the days ahead.

In another corner was Elizabeth's strutting Chimaera, caged behind three-inch-thick steel bars (and far more potently, Tom's strongest enchantments). In yet another corner, a tunnel twisted away into the darkened chamber where he and Elizabeth practised their magic. At first, in the early days, he had protested, when Elizabeth had first came to him asking to try out some curse she had discovered, but slowly she had swayed him to her side. Now, Tom had done just as much 'practising' in that chamber as she had. Still, sometimes, Tom imagined he could hear the screams.

Perching elegantly on the edge of a three-legged stool, Elizabeth turned to Tom. "Let's see..." she murmured, rifling through the inch-thick layer of parchment that topped the wide, flat coffee table they sat at. "Here it is." She pulled out what Tom immediately recognised as their notes on the Ministry's upper echelons. The foot-long parchment contained, in pain-staking detail, what they had been able to learn of the Ministry's hierarchy - who worked where, who was clever, who was potentially useful - and who was dangerous. "Who did we kill today? Rose Weasel, there's one."

Smirking, Elizabeth crossed out Rose's name.

* * *

"Tell me everything."

"You were the first, Tom," the strange girl began. She stood in the tower's doorway, eerily beautiful with the flickering-green light at her back. "Truly, an accident. Our father pushed the boundaries of Dark magic further than they had ever been pushed and, in the process, he created you." She grinned maliciously. "He liked what he had created. I was next. While you were...experimental, your connection to Father tenuous, I was perfect. You received his knowledge in dribs and drabs, Tom, and even now some of it is forever lost to you. All of that is mine."

"He didn't make any others?" Tom asked, and Elizabeth nodded. "But - why did he chain us up?"

"Father was a cautious man," she sighed. "Doubtless, he wanted no rivals until his power was secure." Her eyes glimmered fervently when she spoke of her 'father', Tom noticed. "But when he ruled the wizarding world, rest assured, he would have freed us. We would have taken our rightful places by his side."

Tom was rather skeptical about that, but he didn't voice his concerns. He had too many questions. "Why'd he stop at two?" he wondered aloud. "I know - well, _he_ knew, I guess - that seven was the most powerful magical number, and he-" he glanced at the strange girl- "he obviously had the process perfected. Why would he stop?"

"Ah. A little baby named Harry Potter got in the way."

"Ah," Tom echoed. "And, when he was reborn..."

"Father had other things to worry about," she said dismissively. "We were forgotten."

"Just to be clear - you're _not_ Lord Voldemort?" Tom asked.

As the strange black-haired girl shrugged, Tom realised he couldn't quite bring himself to call Voldemort _father_. "I am what Father made me, brother," she said.

"One more question, then," he said. Outside, tendrils of orange sunlight were creeping up through the black night sky. "Why now? Why have I been dreaming of your tower?"

"Because I sent the dreams," the strange girl tittered. "Just as I sent the dreams to Harry Potter almost five years ago now."

"But..." Tom still didn't understand. "Why didn't you have Potter free you himself? Why didn't you have me free you years ago?"

"I didn't have Potter free me because I needed you by my side, Tom, if we are to achieve our goals," she said. "As to why I did not contact you before now; well, I was waiting for you to mature, Tom. You were a child, and I had no wish to put up with your pubescence. But now you are ready." Her scarlet eyes glittered in the half-darkness. "Now you are like me."

"I - why wait all this time?" Tom asked. "We've been frozen, ageless and helpless, in these towers for decades. If you could get out - why now? Why not have Potter free me twenty years ago?"

The strange girl held out a hand to Tom, and half-turned into the fading sunlight. "The time was ripe," she said.

* * *

"So to summarise, a fine day's work." Elizabeth's ruby-red eyes flitted momentarily to Tom's. "It could have been even better, Tom. Killing Lily Potter-"

"I won't," Tom interrupted quietly. As Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue, he cut her off. "I _know_ she's an integral part of her Department. I _know_ she's Harry Potter's daughter, and the niece of the Minister for Magic _and_ the Head Auror. I know her death would devastate the wizarding world." Tom shook his head. "I have other plans for her."

Elizabeth actually looked _hurt_ at that, but she broached the subject no further. Instead, she rolled up the piece of parchment she held, studied it a while, then tossed it back onto the pile. When she returned her attention to Tom, she was chewing her lip thoughtfully - a habit she had picked up from Tom. "I fear we won't be able to infiltrate the Ministry for some time," she said sadly. "They have constructed some sort of barrier which I assume will detect any disguises we might use." She pouted. "A shame. I know you were looking forward to murdering the Minister. And I was looking forward to seeing the Department of Mysteries."

"Why?" Tom asked.

Elizabeth simply smiled coyly. "I must have _some_ secrets, brother."

"Er - fine." Putting the matter of Elizabeth's sudden interest in the Department of Mysteries aside, Tom thought for a moment. "I think it might be time I talked to Harper."

"Your old school friend?" Elizabeth asked doubtfully.

"She's well connected," Tom reminded her. "Harper's in a position to see a lot of interesting things."

"I assume this won't be a social call?" Elizabeth said, smiling dangerously. "It _has_ been a long time, Tom. She may not take too kindly to seeing you."

Tom echoed her smile. "I'll find a way to bring her around," he said smoothly. "I think I'll go to see her tomorrow."

Elizabeth pouted playfully. "But what will I do?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something."

* * *

Tom met the strange girl's scarlet eyes. They stood outside, in the tower's shadow. The sun was rising, the wind was picking up, and the leaves of the holly bushes were rustling gently in the breeze. The tower's strength was burning within Tom. "We won't be back for a while, will we?" he asked sadly. He had only been here a few hours, with this strange girl, but he had felt more at home within this tower's walls than he ever had at Hogwarts.

"We will be back," she reassured him, squeezing his hand gently. "Once we are ready, we will return."

"Right." Tom glanced at her. They were almost of a height, he and the girl; the wind was whipping up her long jet-black hair into a frenzy. "Before we leave, I have to ask - what's your opinion on Muggles?"

The strange girl smirked. "It sounds rather like you're interviewing me, brother."

"I just want to get to know my sister," he reassured her. _That,_ he thought darkly, _and everything I've ever heard about Lord Voldemort._ "Well?"

"The Muggles are vermin," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "We should rule over them. We shall." But seeing the flash of distaste - of uncertainty - in Tom's eyes, she frowned. "Have I upset you?" she asked almost tenderly.

"No, it's just - look," said Tom. "I've been persecuted every day of my life. I know how it feels, and it's not nice. I don't know what Lord Voldemort thought, or what he implanted in your brain; but the Muggles are no different from you or I. If we're going to do this..."

"The world needs to change, Tom," she told him softly. "You and I must be the ones to do it. You want revenge, don't you? You want to right the wrongs that have been done to you?"

Tom said nothing.

"Very well," the strange girl relented, smiling kindly at her brother. "Forget the Muggles. You and I are alone in this world. We can't afford to argue."

"Thanks," Tom said gratefully. "I don't have anything against the Muggles. It's the wizarding world I have a problem with."

* * *

 _What do you want_?

Why did Lily's words continue to echo in Tom's ears, hours after her pale frightened face had disappeared from his sight? More importantly, why did Tom have no answer? Sometimes it felt like he'd been in a daze these last five years - in a drugged Elizabeth-induced stupor. Some nights he'd wake up, heart hammering, wide-eyed and panicked, wondering what on earth he had done. Of course, those nights were few and far between. So what did he want?

Revenge, Elizabeth would say. That was true enough. Granger and Potter and Hugo Weasley and all those others that had caused Tom so much misery over the years; Tom wanted to knock the entire bloody nepotic Potter-Weasley family off their pedestals. But there was something else he wanted, something vague and undefined, something he had only ever experienced for a few fleeting moments; a whispered conversation in the Hogwarts library, or a stroll up and down Diagon Alley.

But Lily hated him.


	24. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes

_Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_

* * *

Tom waited, in the cold and rain, while the workers of the Ministry of Magic flooded from their underground warrens onto the streets of London. The Ministry had beefed up their security again, even since his last visit; now, six Aurors stood on guard at the entrance to the false Underground station, their wands ready, their faces grim. They paid no attention to the tall, suited blond-haired man sitting on a bench across the street, his nose ostensibly buried in a Muggle newspaper, however. Tom had disguised himself well. No need for anything so crude as the Polyjuice potion, either - just a few choice charms were enough to render himself effectively invisible. The Aurors were looking for a monster, a black-haired ice-skinned demon with glowing red eyes; they wouldn't glance twice at Tom.

Some time passed. Gradually, the flow of Ministry workers slowed to a trickle, and still Harper hadn't appeared. Growing frustrated, Tom glanced at his battered old watch. Nearly eight o'clock in the evening; he'd been here for almost three hours, and Harper's familiar black-haired visage was yet to rise into view. Perhaps she was off sick today. If only he knew where she lived, Tom thought, sighing as he reached into a suit pocket to pull out a battered copy of _Charms and Curses of the Twentieth Century._ He and Elizabeth knew where Potter, Granger, Lily and the other bigwigs at the Ministry lived, but they hadn't thought to find out where Harper had wound up after leaving her father's home.

Tom had reached W (for Wolfsbane) in his book when he saw her. First, a lanky middle-aged red-haired man and a bushy-haired woman climbed the steps, dressed all in black. Tom hurriedly slipped his book back into his pocket as he recognised the Minister for Magic and her Auror husband. Even from this distance, Granger looked as haggard, as haunted, as Tom had ever seen her. Beside her, Weasley was trying - and failing - to hold back tears.

More important, however, than the Weasleys' grief for their dead Rose, dawdling a few steps behind was the Minister's junior undersecretary. As Tom watched the Minister turned to issue a last few words to Harper, who nodded steadily as she did so, scribbling down her orders onto a three-foot-long sheet of parchment. Turning away hand in hand, the Weasleys disappeared into thin air. The Muggles, of course, took no notice. Tom hastened across the street before Harper, too, could disappear.

He narrowly slipped between two onrushing cars and a gaudy-red London bus, splashed through a puddle as he mounted the far-side pavement, then hurried towards Harper's turned back. As she twisted on the spot, Tom seized her arm in a vice-like grip. Harper screamed as they were whisked away into the claustrophobic kaleidoscope of Apparition, but it was too late. Tom allowed his charm-disguise to melt away as they whirled. First, a well-appointed London flat rose into view, and Tom felt Harper struggling violently to escape his grip - but then, effortlessly, Tom took control of their flight. Harper's flat faded, and then they were spinning again, and now they were falling towards charcoal-black stone-

 _Thump._

* * *

Elizabeth's boot-heels clicked loudly on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley as she walked. The Alley was as quiet as she, in her few surreptitious visits, had ever seen it; those few that _had_ dared to venture onto the streets in this icy-cold drizzle scurried from place to place, heads bowed, wrapped up in cloaks as thick as blubber. _As if that will protect them,_ she thought disdainfully. Elizabeth's hair was a brilliant bubble-gum pink, her eyes a round, pretty blue rather than scarlet slits, and she wore faded Muggle attire rather than her accustomed flowing-black robes - all her dear brother's advice.

Good advice too, she privately admitted, even if the jeans chafed, her hair looked ridiculous and her eyes no longer struck fear into all who looked upon her - the walls and windows of Diagon Alley were plastered with 'Wanted' posters and, looking like herself, she would surely have been spotted within seconds, blue eyes or not. _Wanted_ and _Beware_ , the posters cried. Each was accompanied by a hand-drawn picture of Elizabeth and her brother. They were rather good, she thought, pausing at the window of a garishly-painted shop named Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes to observe one of the posters.

They had captured her eyes rather well, and the picture - it moved, as all wizarding pictures did, and this miniature Elizabeth was giggling maliciously, her scarlet eyes gleaming as she gestured her wand threateningly towards any passers-by. As Elizabeth - the real Elizabeth - watched, her miniature self noticed the woman with bubble-gum pink hair watching curiously. The drawing-Elizabeth blinked for a moment, then grinned in sudden recognition. She nudged her six-inch tall brother, and together they waved up at her. For a moment, Elizabeth felt half-tempted to wave back.

She soon tired of this, however. She had work to do; mayhem to cause, hell to raise. The wizarding world had to be suffocating in a fog of fear before it could fall, and it had fallen to her to bring that about. While Tom was catching up with old girlfriends, she would have some fun. Elizabeth looked upwards, to the few square inches of window not smothered with posters of herself. Inside she could see the interior of a joke shop, decorated entirely in eye-hurtingly bright orange. Unlike the misty streets outside, the joke shop was thick with customers, and they looked altogether too happy.

She resolved to change that.

Elizabeth took several long-legged steps backwards from the window, then shook away her disguise. A passer-by, a sixteen year-old girl with curly blonde hair, shrieked and sprinted for safety. Laughing coldly, Elizabeth slashed her wand towards the window of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. With a cacophonous blast of flame, the glass shattered inwards into a thousand tiny pieces. From within the joke-shop Elizabeth heard sudden, surprised screams, and panicked shouts - and then the customers began to stream out onto the street. Or, at least, attempted to. Elizabeth had thrown up an invisible barrier over the joke-shop's open doorway.

Turning away, she sent another flaming blast towards the wide sheet-glass windows of Flourish & Blotts, and another towards the white-marble facade of Gringotts. This amused her for a few moments until - _bang_! - Elizabeth's invisible barrier over the joke-shop's doorway collapsed, and the customers of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes streamed out onto the Alley. Elizabeth stung a few curses their way as they fled - nothing _too_ serious, though. She didn't want to _kill_ her soon-to-be-subjects after all; just scare them, and scare them she had. Satisfied, she turned from the burning orange-red joke-shop to Apparate back to the tower.

Suddenly, the red flash of a Stunning Spell singed her ear. Whirling, Elizabeth saw two figures emerging from the flame-stricken joke shop's crumpled doorway; a middle-aged red-haired man, lanky, long-haired and dressed in a finely-tailored suit, and behind him, a tall dark-skinned witch. Both had their wands raised, and their faces were stained with smoke and soot.

" _Another_ weasel?" Elizabeth laughed - then ducked as the red-haired man sent another Stunner her way. "How many of you _are_ there?" She took a step backwards, wand raised, as the pair advanced on her, stepping forward into the rain while their shop burned behind them. "One less now, I suppose. How is little Rosey?"

The red-haired man snarled. Beside him, his witch friend raised her wand to strike. " _Impedimenta_!" she yelled.

But her curse was sluggish, and poorly aimed, and Elizabeth deflected it easily. She sent the white flash stinging back towards the tall witch's chest. The witch tried to twist out of the way, but too late - the rebounded curse found its mark, and the witch thudded to the ground. " _Angelina_!" the red-haired man cried, sinking to the ground beside the witch.

"I'm fine!" she shouted, pushing the lanky man away angrily. "Go, _get her_ -"

But Elizabeth had already turned away, twisted on the spot, and disappeared into thin air. The Aurors were on their way, after all, and she'd had her fun. She'd done enough for one day. Who knew what tomorrow might bring?

* * *

As Tom rose to his feet, he noticed with mild curiosity that his left hand was bleeding. Crimson blood trickled steadily from his palm to the tower's peak he stood upon. The black stone drunk the blood like a sponge. One of the upraised rivulets of razor-sharp stone must have cut him as he landed, he surmised. He _had_ been aiming for the tower's entrance, five hundred feet below, but Harper must have knocked his aim off a little. No matter. Tom healed the scratch with a dismissive flick of his wand, then strode to the tower's edge.

The sky was dizzyingly colossal here, five hundred feet in the air; a vast blue blanket that seemed to suffocate everything else in sight. If Tom were to take one more step forwards he would fall through that beautiful blue sky, tumbling from the tower's lofty precipice down and down and down until he landed with a _crunch_ on the hilltop below. As he turned away, Harper was rising unsteadily to her feet. She groaned weakly, shaking hands searching desperately for her wand - and then she saw him, and all thought of fighting was forgotten. Harper clapped a hand to her mouth in horror.

"Harper," Tom said amicably. As he stepped towards the twenty-one year-old woman, she backed away frantically towards the edge of the tower. "You look good."

Her eyes wild with fear, Harper took another panicked step backwards - her foot slipped on the smooth stone - and, with a sudden surprised _yelp_ , she tumbled backwards out of sight. Sighing, Tom strode after her. A flick of his wand brought the falling Harper snapping back upwards to him like a yo-yo. "Careful now," he called as she rose into the air before him, arms flailing wildly, dangling helplessly in mid-air. Harper screamed shrilly, and Tom rolled his eyes.

"No one can hear you, you know." Tom swept a hand towards the orange-purple moors that stretched to the horizon in every direction. "See? No one."

Still she screamed and fought. Tiring of this, Tom slashed his wand, silencing Harper mid-yell - then lowered his wand to his side. Harper fell six feet. Tom caught her, a hard bone-jerking grasp, then raised her up to his eye level again. "Ready to talk?" he asked.

For a second, Harper's lips widened in yet another desperate scream - but she could make no sound. Her eyes flitted desperately from the ground five hundred feet below, to the tower's jagged stone walls, to the empty, desolate moorland, and lastly to Tom's icy-calm expression. After a moment, her eyes seemed to dim slightly, understanding of the hopelessness of her situation dawning, and Harper's shoulders slumped in defeat. She nodded weakly.

With a flick of his wand Tom removed his charm, and Harper's tongue unstuck from the roof her mouth with a _squelch_. "What do you want from me?" she asked feebly, hanging helpless in mid-air.

"I just want to talk, Harp," Tom assured her. "How's things?"

She was no fool, however, Tom's old school-friend - and she was a Slytherin. Understanding soon dawned in her eyes. "You want me to spy for you," she surmised darkly. "On the Minister."

"Yes." Tom saw no point in dressing it up. "Look down, Harper." Following his gaze she took a long, lingering look downwards at the distant stony ground five hundred feet below. "If you fall now, your bones will shatter into a million tiny pieces on those rocks," Tom told her. "The wind will blow what remains of you to the four corners of the earth. You have few friends, little family to mourn you beyond a cruel father who never wanted you anyway; you'll soon be forgotten."

When Harper's gaze returned to Tom, the grim expression her pretty features were fixed in made it plain; she had already accepted it in her heart. "Do I have a choice?" she asked finally.

Tom nodded at the jagged rocks below. "You do," he called, as the wind howled. "Wealth. Power. Fame. Or..." he trailed off, glancing once more at the long way down.

"How _much_ wealth?" Harper asked, and Tom knew he had her.

"You remember that break-in at Gringotts?" As Harper nodded uncertainly, Tom grinned. "That was us."

Her eyes widened, and then there was no fear left there, only greed and avarice and dreams. "OK," she said. "I'll do it. Just let me down."

"Excellent," Tom said happily, offering a hand to Harper as he lowered her towards the tower's stone peak. She took his hand gratefully, legs bucking in relief as she stepped back onto solid ground. "But, Harper-" Tom's grip tightened, and Harper winced in pain- "If you betray us, we'll know."

She met his eyes, and nodded.


	25. Love, the Riddles

_Love, the Riddles_

* * *

"How many today?" Tom asked as Elizabeth swept into the room, robes billowing impressively behind her, a devilish smile on her pale-red lips. Outside, the sun was setting.

"Twelve."

" _Twelve_?" he repeated, impressed. "You've been busy."

"A group of Magical Co-operation witches stopped after work for a drink in the Leaky Cauldron." Elizabeth smirked. "A foolish mistake."

"Very foolish," Tom echoed. "Any trouble?"

The corners of Elizabeth's mouth twitched upwards amusedly. "You don't have to worry about me, brother."

"I know I don't," he said fondly. Reaching into the pile of yellowed parchments strewn across the table before him, Tom pulled out their notes on the Ministry's extensive collection of workers. The Ministry's workforce was looking rather depleted of late, he noticed happily. "Kill anyone important?"

Elizabeth glanced at Tom, ruby eyes gleaming strangely. "Only Lily Potter." At the immediate flash of shock on Tom's face, she laughed cruelly. "Joking, Tom. I'd never _dare_ harm your dear Lily." Taking the sheet of parchment from Tom, she scrawled out a few names. As she worked, she chewed her lip, Tom noticed. "No one particularly significant," she sighed, tossing the parchment back onto the coffee table. "But I'd say the Minister ought to have gotten the message by now. If not, she's a fool."

Tom nodded thoughtfully. "You think it's time to pay our tame Ministry worker a visit?"

Elizabeth nodded.

* * *

James never had a funeral. They hadn't even known for sure that he _was_ dead until a week or two ago, when Tom Riddle and Elizabeth - the strange, monstrous woman who seemed to have come from nowhere, and now called herself Tom's sister - had attacked the Ministry of Magic. Tom had told Lily, Harry's youngest child, that he had murdered Lily's older brother. James. A boy Tom had known since his very first days in the wizarding world. Harry had been there when they had first met. He had introduced them.

Even then, there was no funeral. There was no body, and Harry shuddered to think what Tom might have done with it. What he might have - no. With a herculean effort, Harry dragged his thoughts away from his murdered son. This wasn't James' funeral, here at a little old church in the country, an idyllic place of crumbling grey-stone and ivy, and birds chirping. It was Rose's. They were all here, together again. Harry sat in the front row. Ginny sat to his right, sobbing silently into his shoulder. To his left was Lily, stony-faced, grief-stricken, and past Lily, Albus and his wife.

On the other side of the aisle, chalk-faced among the sea of black were Ron and Hermione, sitting on either side of twenty-one year old Hugo. Both gazed, unblinking, at their daughter. Rose lay atop a black-velvet-cloaked bier, dressed in simple robes, the same deep-blue colour as her now-closed eyes. Blood-red roses were threaded through her long red hair. She looked heart-breakingly like Lily at that moment. The bier was draped in flowers, an explosion of colour on this most grey and sombre of winter evenings, blue and red and purple - and white.

They had arrived, anonymous, this morning, a bouquet of beautiful snow-white lilies. When Harry looked at them, he was almost back on the banks of the lake at Hogwarts, listening to Fawkes the phoenix's sorrowful lament. Hermione had asked around, but no one seemed to know who had sent the lilies.

Sitting on Ron's right were Molly and Arthur, their aged faces streaked with tears. For some reason, seeing them sent a particularly stinging stab of pain searing through Harry. _This was supposed to be over,_ he thought helplessly. _This was never supposed to happen again._ Instead, Molly and Arthur had seen first their friends, then their children, then their grandchildren die. How long would it go on? Would, someday, Harry's grandchildren lie up there, draped in velvet and roses, while he watched?

 _Harry_ , a voice deep within him seemed to whisper. A woman's voice, soft, sweet - yet strong. His mother's, Harry knew instinctively. _No more self-pity, Harry. This isn't you._

 _What can I do_? he thought helplessly.

 _You can try._

Hermione had pleaded with Harry, almost daily since Tom and Elizabeth's attacks began, to return to the Ministry. He had refused. He had asked Hermione what he could possibly do. He was just one man. He wasn't Dumbledore, or Kingsley, or Snape, or even someone like Lupin. He couldn't make a difference.

 _Of course you can. I believe in you._

Harry was distracted from his mother's faint ethereal whispers by the sound of suddenly-renewed sobs, and the soft flutter as the audience rose as one to watch Rose Weasley's final descent. Harry, too, rose to his feet, taking Ginny's hand in his own with a strength that seemed to have long deserted him. _She's in a better place_ , he thought, as the coffin lid swung shut. That, and the song of the lilies, gave him a modicum of comfort. _She's moved on._

 _She's here_ , his mother whispered.

* * *

The editorship of the _Daily Prophet_ had been a sparsely occupied position of late. At times Ginny, sports editor at the _Prophet_ , found herself wondering whether the curse that had infamously plagued the Defence Against The Dark Arts position at Hogwarts might have transferred itself somehow to London. That was stupid, she knew; no one _wanted_ to be editor because, as everyone knew, the newspaper had been one of the driving forces in the whole sordid Tom Riddle saga and - it was _rumoured_ \- Riddle still held a deep personal grudge against the _Prophet._

Some even thought Riddle might have been behind the death of one of the previous incumbents, a certain Mr. Hector, or the mysterious disappearance of the _Prophet_ 's star journalist Elizabeth Selwyn. Curse or no curse, the paper was dying. Ginny should have left years ago. "Don't be stupid," she snapped. The object of her anger was a forty-something year-old man, dressed in a scratchy-brown suit and thick-rimmed reading glasses, a stupid expression present, as always, on his face. Percy Robins, sub-editor of the news department and an insufferable twerp. "Just take the job, you're easily the most qualified out of all of us."

'All of us' were the remaining few senior _Prophet_ journalists and board-members that hadn't abandoned ship the day Tom Riddle returned. All had gathered - all seven of them, in this stuffy little meeting room - to appoint the new editor. Robins, sitting across the table from the fiercely-glaring Ginny, flapped his hands helplessly. "I'm - er - not really sure - well, you see, Ginny, the thing is-"

"Is _what_?" she hissed. Ginny had been returning home from Rose's funeral when the message had come - another editor had flown the _Prophet's_ nest, and her presence was urgently needed. She was in a bad mood, to put it lightly.

"Well - this thing about Tom Riddle-"

"What about him?" she retorted heatedly. "Weren't you the one that was always writing editorials about him, Percy? Didn't you write 'If we do not take action now; if we do not choke the weed, before it strangles us in our sleep, what will the future generations - if any survive - think of us'?" Robins' eyebrow twitched upwards, impressed by Ginny's powers of recollection, but she wasn't finished. "'Riddle is most certainly not a boy', you wrote, 'whatever the sickening, sycophantic half-wits at the Ministry (Harry Potter chief among them) may tell us.' You wrote that ten years ago, Percy."

"What's your point, Ginny?" he asked faintly.

"You terrorised that eleven year-old boy, Percy. For five years you and Elizabeth bloody Selwyn made his life a misery. And now he's grown up, and he's become what you always said he was, and now you don't _dare_ take the position you've dreamed of since you first stepped through these doors as a snivelling eighteen year-old? You sicken me, Percy."

"You're not _still_ hung up on this, are you, Ginny?" Robins sighed, wiping away the steam from his glasses with a frilly handkerchief. "Riddle _was_ a monster. Look how he's turned out."

"He only _turned out_ this way because of _your foul articles_!" she yelled suddenly.

Robins looked rather taken aback by her outburst. "Ginny, I'm going to have to ask you to calm down. We need to appoint a new editor-"

"Who _cares_?" Ginny rose to her feet, suddenly annoyed she hadn't done this years before. Ten years before. "This paper's dying, anyway. Even _if_ Tom Riddle doesn't finish you off, you're done. Nobody reads you anymore."

"Ginny-"

"I'm done," she interrupted, turning towards the exit. "I'm going to see if I can find something useful to do before Tom Riddle kills everyone I know. You scavengers keep picking at the corpse for all I care. You've just about stripped it clean." With that, she stormed out.

* * *

"How many today?" Hermione asked, though she was already fearing the answer to her question.

As she looked up, as expected, her junior undersecretary - a young black-haired woman named Harper - slipped through her half-closed office door. The morning death-count had become part of her daily routine of late, yet each time she heard of Ministry workers murdered, or families burnt alive in their homes, or innocent young women murdered on their way to work, a little part of Hermione, too, died. Harper's expression only fuelled the nervous tension gnawing at Hermione's chest. As she slid Hermione's door shut behind her, the young woman's face was a grave impenetrable mask.

"Twelve, Minister," Harper told her reluctantly.

" _Twelve_?" As Harper nodded, Hermione's shoulders slumped, and she felt the sudden urge to cry. _Twelve_! "When does it end?" she murmured faintly. Suddenly, she noticed her hands were shaking. Balling them into fists, she did her best to dispel the despair that had momentarily overcome her. She had to be strong. "I - thank you, Harper." Hermione forced some resolve into her quivering voice, the bleariness from her too-tired eyes. "Has - has Ron had any luck trying to find them?"

"No, Minister."

Well, that was to be expected. Riddle and his sister were ghosts. Hermione's heart still sank, however. "Any messages?" she asked.

"In your intray, Minister."

"Thanks." As Harper rose to leave, Hermione flicked through the thick pile of parchment demanding her attention this morning. All seemed fairly routine, except- "Harper?" she called, confused. Her secretary froze, her hand on the doorknob. When she turned, Hermione held a small folded note of parchment in her hand. She had found it at the bottom of her intray. _Dear Minister_ , it was addressed in a wicked scrawl. "What's this?"

After a moment, Harper shrugged. "No idea, Minister." She pulled the office door open. "If that's all..."

"Yes, go," Hermione told her distractedly, her eyes still fixed on this little bit of parchment. There was something about it that filled her with dread. As the door swung shut, she unfolded it. _Dear Minister,_ it read. _We think it's time we met. Twelve o'clock tomorrow. Trafalgar Square. Love, the Riddles. P.S. Did you like our flowers_?

The parchment fell from Hermione's suddenly-numb hand. They wanted to meet. Tomorrow. _And we will_ , she thought with a sudden hot burst of anger - and that familiar stab of pain, the one she experienced a hundred times a day, every time she remembered that her daughter was dead. _We will. We'll meet them - but not to talk. We'll kill these monsters tomorrow, and all of this will be over._ "Harper?" she called. A few seconds later, her secretary's head popped in through the door. "Send me Lily, would you?"


	26. Bravado

_Bravado_

* * *

There they were.

Her, perched on the brim of a white-marble fountain, her fingertips trailing ever so softly back and forth through the water. Her charcoal-black hair, precisely the same shade as her brother's, cascaded loosely, prettily to her shoulders. She wore faded old jeans and a black-grey long-sleeved t-shirt, and her eyes were a harmless, innocent icy-blue. Looking at the girl who called herself Elizabeth, one of the hundreds of Muggles dotted around this famous old square would scarcely believe that the twenty-one year-old girl was a mass murderer.

Him...Lily's insides twisted into a cold knot of fury at the very sight of Tom Riddle. He lounged carelessly on the stony floor besides his sister, his legs stretched out before him, his back to the marble fountain wall. His head was resting back against the cool white marble, and his eyes were closed. No doubt, Lily thought hatefully, when he opened them, his eyes would be some infuriatingly deceitful shade; blue, brown, grey, green, it varied from encounter to encounter - from murder to murder. She had complimented Tom Riddle on his eyes once, she recalled dimly, when she was only a stupid little girl who didn't see him for the monster he was.

No more.

Lily was at her aunt's side as they crossed the square, the wind howling at their heels. She fingered her wand as she walked, buried deep within the folds of the knee-length jacket she wore. Beside her, she knew, Aunt Hermione was doing the same. Somewhere among the mass of Muggles that, even at ten in the morning, thronged Trafalgar Square were her father, and Uncle Ron, and a dozen other Ministry operatives. Professor Longbottom was here too, and Mum, and Uncles George and Bill and Percy, and even Lily's namesake, strange kind Luna Lovegood. Whatever happened, Tom and Elizabeth Riddle were not leaving this square alive.

The crowds parted for a moment and Lily saw them again, a hundred feet away across the square. This time, Elizabeth met Lily's eyes. Those stark-blue eyes picked Lily's flame-red hair out of the crowd, and Elizabeth's head tilted to the side in a curious, uncannily cat-like manner. Turning slightly, her fingertips slipping out of the sparkling-clear waters, she murmured a word of warning to her brother. Tom Riddle's eyes flickered open. They were scarlet slits, and as he saw Lily, he _smiled._

Lily shuddered. Still, they kept walking. Beside her, Lily felt her aunt tense as they neared. Fifty feet. Through the crowd, scarlet-and-blue eyes stared, unblinking. Again, momentarily, the crowds parted, and for an instant Lily was back in third year at Hogwarts, and an excited young boy was showing her a new spell he had invented. Twenty feet, and Lily was on Platform 9 and 3/4, marvelling at a quill that sparkled as it wrote. Ten, and she sat by Tom Riddle's bedside as he slept, bruised and broken, for weeks and weeks and weeks. Five feet, and a small scared boy sat in the shadows of the Leaky Cauldron, his eyes gleaming brightly in the gloom.

"Lily," Tom called. Still he sat, head tilted back against the cold stone, icy fountain-water teasing the tips of his long black hair, crimson eyes twinkling amusedly at some private joke. "Minister. You came."

"Riddle," Hermione said brusquely.

Abruptly, Tom sat up. Entwining his long pale fingers with his sister's he pulled himself to his feet, then leaned casually against the fountain brim. Beyond, the gently-stirring water was dotted with the gold, silver and bronze of thousands of small coins. In the centre of the fountain, a great jet of cold water spurted continuously into the air. The moisture, a fog-like haze floating gently downwards, stung Lily's pale skin.

"Minister," Tom said again, though his scarlet eyes still lingered on Lily. "You'd do right by me. You told me that, once."

"We all said a lot of things." Tom missed it, but Lily caught the flash of fury in her aunt's eyes, and the silent quivering of anger. "You grew up with Rose. She told me you were a nice boy, once. Quiet, but nice."

"I liked Rose," Tom shrugged. "I always hated Hugo, but Rose I didn't mind."

"She died screaming," Elizabeth commented quietly, half-hidden by her brother's side. Her mouth was twisted in a mischievous half-smile. "She begged for her life. She renounced everything she had ever loved, and I killed her anyway."

"I wonder how you'll die," Lily spat furiously. "Maybe you'll-"

Aunt Hermione raised a hand in silent warning. "Enough, Lily," she said softly. Hermione's face, lined with age but still handsome, was an iron mask. "What do you want, Riddle?"

"Who says we want anything?" Tom remarked playfully. "Maybe we just wanted to chat." His eyes found Lily, her arms folded angrily across her chest, glaring daggers. "How are things, 'Lil? I never got to congratulate you on getting the job at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That's what you always wanted, wasn't it? Of course, it's easier when your aunt is the Minister for Magic, but even so..."

Lily, stony-faced, said nothing. "No _chat_ ," Aunt Hermione hissed, the faintest fleeting hint of her churning fury creeping into her voice. "Is this just a big joke? Another chance to turn the screw that little bit tighter? You've murdered hundreds of people, Riddle. Tell us why, and tell us what you called us here for, or else this is a waste of time."

As Hermione spoke, Lily took a long, lingering would-be-casual glance around. The net was closing in, she realised in a sudden, excited rush. There were Dad and Uncle Ron, pretending to peruse the menu of a cheeseburger stand. And there was a cluster of Aurors, striding across the Square towards the four, seemingly engaged in energetic conversation while pigeons swooped and dive-bombed above their heads. All around, they drew closer, and closer, and closer. Again, Lily found her fingers teasing the tip of her wand, deep within the folds of her jacket.

For the briefest instant, Lily was tempted to draw her wand. Tom and Elizabeth were only a few feet away. He lounged carelessly, seemingly relaxed, on the concrete floor, his back against the marble fountain brim. Elizabeth sat beside her brother, a bored expression on her pretty face, her legs swinging back and forth over the fountain edge. Her eyes flitted curiously, innocently, from here to there - from the fountain's clear waters, and the golden-yellow fish that darted about there, quick as a blink, to the seagulls in the bleak-grey sky, and the pigeons, squawking and fighting over a crust of stale bread, and the Muggles that passed by, blissfully unaware that the son and daughter of the worst Dark wizard of all time were near.

Surely, Lily thought, she could draw before - but then Elizabeth's amused icy-blue eyes found Lily's own, and Lily froze. "Very well," Tom sighed, seemingly unaware that anything was amiss. "You want to know what we want? As it happens, we have a nice long list of demands. Sis, do you have it?"

Slowly, Elizabeth's eyes slid from Lily to her brother. "Yes," she said, contorting nimbly to slide a crumpled piece of parchment from her back pocket. As she stretched, Lily noticed the girl's wand, a long cruel streak of black walnut - strangely familiar - tucked into the waist-band of her jeans. Elizabeth handed the parchment to her brother, who promptly unravelled it and began to read. Both siblings looked faintly amused for some reason, Lily noticed.

"Our first demand," Tom began, "is one hundred thousand Galleons."

"Ridiculous," Hermione snapped. "There isn't enough gold in Gringotts."

Tom cleared his throat, again with an infuriating almost-grin playing across his lips. "Our second demand," he continued, "are unconditional pardons for our alleged crimes."

" _Alleged_ -" Lily began, outraged, but Aunt Hermione quickly quietened her with a soft touch on the arm.

"Equally ridiculous," she said dismissively. "Next."

Grinning at Lily's outburst, Tom nodded towards his sister, now staring blankly into the depths of the nearest concrete slab. "My sister wants the Department of Mysteries."

Hermione glanced at Elizabeth. Happily daydreaming, she appeared lost in another world. "Why?" Hermione finally asked.

Stirred from her reverie, Elizabeth simply shrugged playfully. "This is stupid!" Lily interjected into the momentary silence, stabbing an accusing finger towards Tom. "These aren't real demand, these are - these are-"

"Ridiculous?" Tom suggested slyly.

"Yes!" Lily snapped. "You can't really believe we'll _give_ you what you're asking for, so what's the point? If you weren't _both_ here, I'd think this was some sort of distraction while you attacked the Ministry, but here you are, so..."

Tom held his hands up in mock-surrender. "Okay, 'Lil, you've got us. Can we at least finish the list?"

"No."

"Too bad," Tom sighed. "I especially liked demand twelve. _Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Kingsley Shacklebolt must stand trial for gross negligence._ "

"Negligence?" Lily rolled her eyes. "What, did they neglect to notice what an utter scumbag you are?"

Was it Lily's imagination, or was that a flash of hurt in Tom's scarlet eyes? Whatever it was, it was gone in a fleeting instant, replaced with that familiar sinister, amused gleam that Lily was suddenly convinced was merely bravado. "Enough of this," Aunt Hermione snapped, as Tom's lips parted to deliver an angry response. "If you wanted to catch up with my niece, Riddle, you could have sent her an owl. This is the last time I'll ask; _why are you here_?"

"My brother desires her," Elizabeth said suddenly, her crimson slitted eyes fixed firmly on Lily. Her voice was an ethereal wisp on the wind.

Tom, at least, had the decency to blush. "Not a snowball's chance in hell," Lily told him coldly.

Pointedly avoiding Lily's eyes, Tom forced a reckless half-grin. "Basically, Minister," he said, "we wanted to see how desperate you were." He laughed, a cold harsh noise devoid of any real amusement. "Very, it seems, when the Minister for Magic herself comes alone to a place like this to meet a pair of mass murderers." He chuckled cruelly again. "Oh, but you're not alone, are you? _You're_ the good guys, after all. Why should you trust us? Why should you respect a truce? Why should you follow the rules? After all, we're just a pair of monsters."

For perhaps the first time, Lily saw the furious, maniacal insanity of Voldemort in Tom's eyes. "You want to know what we _want_?" he hissed. "We want to take everything you've ever loved, Lily. We will kill your father, and your mother, and Albus, and we will bring your Ministry to its knees. We will build a new world on the bones of the old one, and you will watch."

"You know, Tom, I was wrong," Lily remarked coldly. "You weren't always like this. You were always evil and twisted, but you were never this insane."

"Last chance, Lily," Tom warned her. "You can't save the Ministry. We're coming, and soon. You can only save yourself. You..." Tom trailed off, his eyes suddenly turning upwards to the white-grey sky. "Can you feel that?" he murmured.

Beside him, Elizabeth shook her head reproachfully. "Naughty, naughty Minister," she whispered, taking her brother's hand in her own. With her other hand, Elizabeth slid her wand from within her jeans. Lily and Hermione tensed, but the black-haired witch simply giggled and lowered her wand towards the crumpled piece of parchment that lay, forgotten, on the white-marble fountain brim. " _Portus_!" she murmured, and the parchment glowed a brilliant electric-blue.

A moment later the blue glow faded, and Tom leapt to his feet. All around, the Ministry's forces were closing in. "That's an Anti-Apparition spell," Tom said, gesturing towards the bleak sky above. "I wonder when the Muggles installed that?"

A moment's silence passed - and then all four reached for their wands at once.

Lily was faster than her aunt. As she drew her wand, Tom's Shield Charm was already rising into place between him and the red-haired girl - but Lily didn't intend to curse him. Instead she pulled Aunt Hermione under her own protective Shield Charm, diving to the concrete floor as the fountain exploded in a cacophony of light and noise. Lily lay, face pressed into the hard cold concrete, for at least thirty seconds while the assembled might of the Ministry of Magic bombarded the white-marble fountain with curse after curse after curse.

 _This is going to be a nightmare to explain to the Muggles,_ she thought, one stray calm thought among the madness. Lily didn't realise it had ceased until her father's strong hands gripped her shoulder. Turning, she saw him, his words drowned out by the endless ringing of _blasts_ and _thuds_ in her ears. As Harry Potter pulled her to her feet, Lily looked around frantically. The fountain was a ruin. The square was deserted, and silent but for the howling winds and the distant, quiet wail of police sirens.

"Did we get him?" she asked over and over again, Lily's voice a muffled, echoing sludge to her wrecked ears. "Did we get him?"

Her only answer was the silence, and the grim faces of those few who had remained. Amidst the smoking wreckage of the fountain, only one relic of the Riddles remained; a charred, half-burnt sliver of parchment, yellowed and crumpled, and Lily found herself remembering Tom Riddle's words.

They were coming, and soon.


	27. Dancing on Strings

_Dancing on Strings_

 **(Just adding in random authorial notes as I race through all these chapters I'm digging out of an old Word doc: there is so, so much of this stuff I want to change. I have massive, detailed plans to expand and improve upon basically everything in this story (and God knows it needs it). This will involve removing characters, adding characters, removing storylines, adding storylines. So if you're reading this thinking it's utter trash, well, I agree with you.)**

Two hours had passed since the fiasco at Trafalgar Square. Now, Hermione sat in her office at the Ministry of Magic, fingers steepled beneath her chin, lost in the jagged swirl of her thoughts. Across her desk, five pairs of eyes blinked back at her. From right to left they were Harry, Ron, Ginny, Lily, and Hermione's young secretary Harper. Hermione's three oldest, most trusted friends, and her two faithful lieutenants.

"This has to end," she said simply. "When Riddle and his sister attack - and it will be _soon_ \- they have to die."

A flutter of weary nods was her only answer. Everyone in this room had already lost too much. Across the table, barely-concealed fury was radiating off Ginny in waves, while beside her pain still lingered in Ron's eyes. Harry's face was fixed in gritty resolve, and his twenty-one year-old daughter Lily sat staring into space, her eyes cold and hard. A three-inch long slash-wound gleamed bright crimson on her cheek, earned protecting her aunt in the chaos at the square. Beside Lily, Harper gazed at Hermione attentively. The girl hadn't lost anyone close that Hermione had heard of, but Tom Riddle had been her friend once. In some ways, Hermione supposed, that was even more painful.

"OK, then," Hermione continued flatly. "In two hours' time, we'll evacuate the Ministry. We'll send everyone who doesn't want to fight home. Then we wait for Riddle and his sister with everything we've got. Ron, we need your Aurors to be ready. Ginny, Harper, I want you to beef up the security of the Ministry. Maybe set up some traps for Riddle. Harry, round up the old gang. Bill, Charlie, George, Luna, Neville, the DA... we'll need every wand we can get if we're going to beat them." Hermione paused uncertainly. "Er - everyone agree?"

There was a moment's silence - and then Ginny burst into laughter. "Sorry, Hermione," she snorted as Hermione flashed her a questioning look. "It's just - you sound so _military_."

They all smiled faintly at that. Soon, though, Lily leaned forward, her expression matter-of-fact. "So there's no other help coming?" she asked. "What about the International Confederation of Wizards? Where do the other Ministries stand on Tom?"

Hermione's smile faded. "The same as they stood on the last Tom Riddle," she admitted. "He's our problem."

"There's ten years in Magical Co-operation wasted," Ron said dryly. "All those midnight flights to Lithuania or the North Pole... ah, fond memories."

The others laughed, but Lily sank backwards into her seat, her expression troubled. Hermione would have pressed the issue, but time was running out. She rose to her feet, her chair scraping backwards with a _screech_ of wood on stone. The others rose with her - all except Lily. "Better get going," Hermione told them. "The doors shut in two hours. If you have anything that needs doing, now's the time."

For a second she thought of visiting Hugo, or her parents, or Rose's grave, but Hermione quickly dispelled that notion. She had to be here.

One by one, they filed out of her office. Ron squeezed her hand, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and then he was gone. He was followed by Harry, then Harper, who dawdled in the doorway but was quickly urged on by Ginny. Last was Lily. As Hermione eased her office door shut, her niece spoke. "Can we beat them, Aunt Hermione?"

"I don't know."

* * *

Two hours.

In two hours, Lily had to find a way to kill Tom Riddle. She had to find a way because she knew that if she didn't, everyone she loved was going to die. Tom was too smart. Too smart to be backed into a corner, too smart to start a fight he couldn't win, too smart to try to fight his way through hundreds of Ministry workers to get to Aunt Hermione. If he was coming to the Ministry of Magic, he was coming with tricks up his sleeve. Lily wanted to return the favour.

Two hours. Time for three trips, she reckoned. The first was down to the Department of Mysteries, and to old Professor Croaker, expert extraordinaire in Dark Magic. He wore a long white coat, the Professor, as he sat on a step eating his lunch above rows and rows of black-stone benches. They cascaded down to a grand stone archway, set on a dais in the centre of the room. Beneath the archway fluttered a tattered old black veil. Behind Croaker's thick-rimmed spectacles his eyes were a weepy, watery blue, and they found Lily now as she stepped into the high-ceilinged room, footsteps ringing loudly on the dusty stone.

"Professor Croaker?" she called. "You spoke to my aunt a few weeks ago."

"Of course," he replied, bobbing his head up and down in a kindly manner. "Come in, come in."

He beckoned her forwards as if inviting Lily into his office, not some strange ancient chamber. Lily glanced sidelong towards the veil, fluttering slightly in a non-existent breeze, and for a second she swore she almost heard a whisper. "I have a few more questions about Tom," she said, taking a seat beside the Professor. At his feet was a tottering pile of old parchments. Lily took a glance, but they were all written in Latin. "What do you know about Horcruxes, Professor?"

"Horcruxes?" Beneath a thin tuft of white hair, Croaker's brow furrowed. "Little, I fear - but I _do_ know that neither Tom Riddle nor his sister possess any, Miss Potter."

Lily blinked uncertainly. The Professor had anticipated her question; for some time now, she'd been wondering - wondering whether, like their father, Tom and Elizabeth could even _be_ killed? "How do you know?" she asked - and then the answer hit her. So obvious. "Because they still look human."

Croaker nodded kindly, and for a moment Lily felt rather like she was back at Hogwarts, correctly answering a question while the class looked on. _Ten points to Gryffindor._ "If they'd been making Horcruxes, they'd look a bit more snakey," she concluded. "Besides," she added thoughtfully, "it doesn't really seem like the sort of thing Tom would go in for. He's no caught up on death like Voldemort was." She grimaced unpleasantly. "He's just a psycho. And Elizabeth...well, Voldemort's mission in life was to achieve immortality. Elizabeth just wants her dear dad back."

Lily had heard Neville's story of how Elizabeth had infiltrated Hogwarts in the guise of a black cat and attacked him in his very office. _Keep an eye out for cats_ , she told herself. _Or dogs, or rats, or...what sort of animal would Tom turn into_? This wasn't a helpful line of thought, she decided. Lily returned her attention to Professor Croaker, who had taken in her rambling thoughts on Tom and Elizabeth with quiet interest.

"Any other questions, Miss Potter?" he asked politely.

"Well..." Lily found herself reliving her encounters with Tom in her head. On more than one occasion, she had been lucky to escape with her life. Always they had been fighting on Tom's terms, in small numbers, in enclosed spaces. Tom and his sister had always had the element of surprise. Any time any sort of significant force of Aurors closed in, they disappeared into the wind. Well, it was time to turn the tables. "You were there when we went to that tower, right? The one out in the sea? Tom's tower."

"I was," Croaker confirmed, "though I could not actually _see_ the tower. A fascinating enchantment. Perhaps tied to bloodlines..." he trailed off, eyes twinkling with wonder. "But I digress. Please, go on."

"I was thinking that Tom and Elizabeth must have some sort of hidden hideout," Lily said. "And where better than-"

"Another one of these towers," Croaker finished. "Perhaps Elizabeth originated from one herself. Yes, I see your reasoning, Miss Potter."

"The problem is, if this new tower is anything like the one Dad led us to, it'll be pretty bloody well hidden." Croaker chuckled at that. "I know nothing about this sort of stuff - complex magic, I mean. If I can't point my wand and say the words, I'm lost. Can _you_ find it?"

"Perhaps," Croaker said cryptically. "Though is it not too late, Miss Potter? From what I hear, the Riddles are coming to you."

"Yes, but..." Lily's eyes fell to the floor.

"You fear you will not win," Croaker said kindly.

"Can we?"

"Well, I'm no warrior," Croaker chuckled amicably, "just an old man with too much time on his hands. I can give you no spells or secret weapons, I fear. Perhaps...when I was at Hogwarts, Professor Binns told us that even the greatest duellists in history struggled to fight more than three foes at once."

Despite herself, Lily grinned. "I think that might be the only interesting thing he's ever said."

Croaker laughed lightly. "Yes, I think it may have been." Reaching over with a wrinkled old hand, he patted Lily reassuringly on the shoulder. "I fear I have nothing more to offer you, Miss Potter, than good luck."

Both of them heard the unspoken words; _we're going to need it._ Thanking Croaker, Lily rose to her feet and turned to go. She glanced at her watch - almost forty minutes had passed. Time for her second trip.

* * *

What was the etiquette for talking to a painting, Lily wondered as she made the long climb up the golden-griffin staircase towards the Headmaster's office. Did she ask Dumbledore how she was? If he'd had a good day? Or would he take umbrage with that? She could almost picture it now; _how do you think my day's been, I'm a painting_! No, she decided, she would play it aloof. Polite. A simple 'Hello, Professor Dumbledore', then Lily would ask her questions and leave.

This wasn't a climb she had made often in her school years, she reflected as she climbed the staircase. She hadn't been one for causing trouble. James, on the other hand... he was always up and down these stairs. Lily smiled fondly at the memory. Without fail, James would return to the Gryffindor common room fuming at Professor McGonagall's unfairness, but by the next day he would have forgotten all about it, and Lily's brother would already be plotting his next transgression.

Tom had been a frequent visitor too, she remembered with a sudden disquiet, the black-haired boy answering for one outburst or another. More than often, someone had called him _freak_ , or _snakeface_ , or worse, and Tom had retaliated. Often Lily had comforted him afterwards, sitting with Tom in shadowy library alcoves, hidden from the rest of the world, listening to the young boy talk, eyes gleaming, of spells he had invented or books he had read, telling him that it was unfair, that he didn't deserve it. The only time Lily had been in the Headmaster's office, she recalled, she had defended Tom Riddle against a fourth-year Hufflepuff girl's accusations.

Now, she was here to find a way to kill him. Lily reached the top of the spiral staircase and stepped through the open doorway into the spacious offices beyond. All around her long-dead Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts covered the walls. Some slept, some jerked awake as she passed, while some stared with bare-faced curiosity; Lily could feel their eyes burning into her skin. She tried to ignore them, but one man in particular drew her eye; a sallow-faced man with long black hair and beady-black eyes. When her bright-brown eyes found his, the sallow-faced man looked as if he had seen a ghost. Blanching, he turned and disappeared into the side of his painting.

Suddenly, a voice rang out behind her. "My apologies, Lily." Turning, she saw an ancient white-haired man dressed in magnificent purple robes, gazing down from his picture-frame with kindly twinkling-blue eyes. "A sore subject for Severus, I fear."

Stepping closer, Lily recognised Albus Dumbledore. He was unmistakeable; Lily had been collecting Chocolate Frog cards since the age of three, after all. "Was that - was that Snape?" she asked uncertainly.

"It was indeed Severus," Dumbledore confirmed. "I believe the sight of you was rather much for him. You look very like your grandmother, you see."

"Oh." Lily didn't really understand what had just happened, but she put it aside. "Er - I wanted to ask you a question," she said. "If you don't mind."

"Of course," said Dumbledore, smiling warmly down at her. "I've seen altogether too little of you, Lily. The pleasure is mine."

"Maybe I should have got in trouble more," she suggested wryly.

"Perhaps," he smiled. "But I can see you are too busy to humour an old man's whims. Please continue with your question."

"Er - thanks," Lily said. "It's - well, it's about Tom Riddle. Professor, you fought Voldemort. You were better than him."

"You flatter me, Lily."

"Well - my dad says so, anyway. So - er - about Tom...can you help me beat him?"

Dumbledore's smile faltered slightly. "He was a sad boy," the old man said eventually, a strange note of wistfulness in his voice. "A lonely child, it was obvious. He was in the Headmaster's office often, but I didn't have the opportunity to speak with him until after..." he trailed off for a long moment. "Tom had a good nature," Dumbledore said finally. "He was a kind boy."

Lily waited a second, but Dumbledore ventured nothing more. "He's not a kind boy now," she said into the silence. None of the portraits were feigning sleep now. They listened intently as she spoke. "He's evil."

"Tom is a victim." An angry rebuke was already forming on Lily's lips, but Dumbledore raised a hand to silence her. "I will not excuse his crimes but, likewise, I will not deny that Tom Riddle was once a good-hearted boy. He was twisted into what he is now, but he could have been a good man. Perhaps, he still could be. If only..."

"I think it's a little late for that, Professor," Lily said, fighting to keep the anger and impatience from her voice. "Can you help me?"

"It is important to me that you understand this, Lily," Dumbledore said softly. "Tom Riddle was shaped into what he is by hatred. The true evil. Tom, and his sister in her own way, are merely victims of their father's hate - and that of others, in Tom's case."

" _Elizabeth_ -"

"Oh, yes," Dumbledore interrupted smoothly, "she is. Elizabeth is an altogether different creature from her brother. She has no choice but to do as she does. She was created by Lord Voldemort as a weapon, and that is all she knows, but beneath that she has a childlike nature. Innocent, almost."

"She _enjoys_ it!" Lily exclaimed. "Why are you defending them?"

"I want you to see, Lily." Dumbledore's voice was heavy with sadness. "The same mistakes cannot be made three times in a row. We must learn, and that must begin with you. Show Tom Riddle kindness, and he may yet be saved."

"He's a murderer. I don't _want_ to save him." This was pointless. Lily still had one more place to go after this, and time was running out. "Look, will you help me or not, Professor? If you don't, they're going to kill my dad, and my mum, and Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron, and hundreds more. And it won't be with _kindness."_

"Very well," Dumbledore sighed. "I will help you." The obvious question rose to Lily's lips, but the old man saw it coming. "No, it will not kill Tom or his sister. It will not maim Tom, or wound him. But there are other ways of destroying a man."

* * *

"Are you ready?" Elizabeth asked softly.

Her head was tilted to the side in that strange, childlike manner she had. Her pale-red lips, a splash of colour on her flawless, wintry-white skin, were parted ever so slightly, and in the flickering half-light her scarlet eyes gleamed like rubies. Not for the first time, Tom noticed how truly beautiful she was, pretty and fragile and innocent, like some hand-painted puppet so lovingly crafted that it looked almost real. And, like a puppet, Tom thought, Elizabeth still danced on her long-dead master's strings.

A time might come - when the Ministry had fallen and all those who had wronged Tom were punished - when Elizabeth might have to choose between her brother and their not-quite-father, whose influence lurked beneath the surface in Elizabeth like a churning ocean current. Tom wondered if he might have to cut her strings. But now was not the time, so all he said was "As ready as I'll ever be."

Elizabeth offered him an icy-cold hand. When Tom took it, her fingernails dug into his skin, and her eyes flashed dangerously. "One question, brother," she said in an almost-whisper. "If it comes to a choice between Lily Potter and I, who will you choose?"

Tom had strings of his own, of course. For a long moment, he stared into his sister's eyes. "You, of course," he lied. "Lily means nothing to me."

Elizabeth's grip slackened slightly. "You desire her, that is all?"

"That is all," Tom confirmed, and Elizabeth smiled sweetly.

"Excellent," she said, pulling Tom to his feet. "Shall we?"

Turning, Tom snapped his fingers, and emerald-green flames, ten feet tall, sparked into life. Hand in hand, they walked towards the fire. "Let's hope our Trojan horse hasn't got cold feet," Tom murmured.

"Trojan horse?" Elizabeth asked blankly. "Cold feet?"

"It doesn't matter," Tom told her, and together they stepped into the flames.


	28. And All Those Who Followed Her

_And All Those Who Followed Her_

 **(Basically if it sucks, I probably already have a plan for fixing it.)**

* * *

Cautiously, glancing from side to side to ensure she was thoroughly alone, Harper eased open the broom cupboard door. Behind her, the corridor was deserted. Everyone was in the Atrium, hearing the Minister speak. Granger was sending those who didn't want to fight home, Harper knew; afterwards, the Minister and all those who followed her would descend into the innards of the Ministry, cowering, waiting for Tom Riddle's attack. Little did they know that, very soon, he would already be here.

The door swung shut behind Harper, hinges squealing quietly, and she stepped forward into the dingy, cramped cupboard. The walls were lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, and if Harper had stretched out her arms to either side of her body she could have touched both walls. She didn't, though. Instead, sliding a long roll of parchment from within her robes, she read - and muttered aloud - a long list of complicated enchantments. Harper didn't know exactly what the enchantments did, but she had been given her instructions, and she would follow them through. It had already begun, she reflected, fingering the long, sleek red hair that was coiled within her pocket.

With a flourish of her wand, Harper delivered the last of the enchantments. For a moment, nothing happened - and then brilliant-green flames burst into life. Harper leapt back, shrieking involuntarily as the sudden heat singed her skin. Two seconds later, they stepped through. Tom Riddle, tall, handsome, pale-skinned, and beside him his sister, scarlet eyes gleaming. She grinned malevolently as, stepping forward into the Ministry of Magic, she saw Harper. Tom grinned too, a twisted echo of the one Harper had seen so often at Hogwarts.

"You did well, Harper," he told her in a high, cold voice, reaching forward with long pale fingers to embrace her. When he stepped away, Harper clutched a bulging bag of gold in her hand, which she tucked gratefully into the folds of her robes. "How are things here?"

"The Minister is speaking to everyone just now," Harper said. "She's sending them home. The Aurors are getting ready to fight, and Harry Potter left to find some old friends of his and the Minister's. He isn't back yet."

"What about Lily Potter?" Elizabeth asked, her head tilted curiously to the side.

"I haven't seen her," Harper admitted.

There was a moment of rather awkward silence - and then Tom clapped his hands together happily. "No matter," he said. "Lily will turn up at some point, and besides, she isn't a threat. Did you do what we asked, Harper?"

"I did. I gave her the potion and she went out like a lamp." Turning to Elizabeth, Harper handed her the long red hair that was still clutched in her hand. The black-haired witch eyed it happily, then opened the folds of her wispy-black cloak to reveal a belt laden with a glittering array of potions and poisons. Pulling out one murky hip-flask, Elizabeth popped the hair into it. Inside, Harper could see the liquid begin to bubble and churn. "I stashed her in a cupboard up on Level Four," Harper continued. "She - she looked like she was in pain."

"Oh, she is." Elizabeth patted one of the vials hanging from her belt affectionately. Meanwhile, the hip-flask potion had stopped churning, settling down into a deep-purple colour. Elizabeth downed the liquid in one gulp. As Harper watched, wide-eyed, the black-haired woman's skin rippled and bubbled - and then Ginny Weasley stared back at Harper. Elizabeth's flowing black robes hung loosely on the red-haired woman's slighter body - _Ginny's_ body - but Elizabeth's malicious grin was unmistakeable. She held out a freckled hand towards Harper, eyes brown and trusting.

"Shall we pay our dear Minister a visit?"

Harper flashed a sidelong glance at Tom. "What will you do?" she asked.

"I'm sure I'll think of something." Snatching a handful of crystal vials from his sister's belt, Tom flicked his wand above his head. With a shimmer, he disappeared from view. "I always do."

* * *

Where on earth _were_ they?

Hermione stood in the deserted Atrium, the Fountain of Magical Brethren at her back. Two hours had been and gone, and yet Harry, Lily, Ginny and Harper were nowhere to be seen. Only Ron stood by her side - he and the brave (or foolhardy) few that had remained to fight instead of returning to their homes and families. The Aurors were up in their offices preparing, Ron told her. Ginny and Harper had to be _somewhere_ in the Ministry - Hermione had sent them out to check for any holes in their defences and set some traps for Riddle. But they hadn't returned yet, and neither had Harry, dispatched to round up the old gang. Lily...Hermione had _no_ idea where her niece was.

Beside her, perched on the white-marble brim of the fountain, Ron squeezed her hand. He seemed to know what was on her mind. "They'll be here," he told her. Behind Ron she could see the golden statues and the crystal-clear water of the fountain. The old fountain, destroyed in the Second Wizarding War, had been a crude thing, depicting all those the Ministry had termed _beasts_ looking up to their witch and wizard betters. When it was rebuilt, Hermione had made sure that the house-elves, goblins and centaurs took a place side by side with the humans, as equals.

The Second Wizarding War, she thought idly while she waited. That was what they called it. Would they call this the Third Wizarding War?

"See," said Ron suddenly, eyes brightening. "There's Ginny now."

Hermione turned. Stepping out of a golden-gated lift, indeed, were Ginny and pretty young Harper. Both made a beeline across the Atrium towards Hermione; Harper walking oddly stiffly, while Ginny swaggered confidently beside her. "Where have you been?" Hermione demanded urgently. "Everyone is gone, Riddle and his sister could be here at any moment!"

Ginny shrugged easily. "Just taking care of a few problems, Hermione. Nothing to worry about." She glanced at Harper beside her, and the young girl nodded.

"Nothing to worry about," Harper affirmed.

"Uh-huh." Still rather puzzled, Hermione turned back towards the fountain. "Well, get comfy. We could be here a while."

Some time passed in silence. The tension in the air among the Ministry's workers was palpable. They fidgeted endlessly, or sat against the black-marble walls, or walked in constant meandering circles, all waiting for something - _anything_ \- to happen.

The first thing they heard was the low _whirring_ of the lift as it descended towards the Atrium. "That'll be your Aurors, Ron," Hermione said, getting to her feet as the golden-gated lift slid downwards into view. "It's about time-"

But Hermione was interrupted by the soft _ding_ as the lift-doors slid open - and the panicked, urgent yell that followed. Whirling, Hermione saw two vaguely-familiar Aurors rushing out of the lift into the Atrium. One was a short brown-haired woman who Hermione half-recognised as having been a few years behind her at Hogwarts. Natalie something. The other was a tall lean man with bright-blond hair and spectacles. Together, spluttering and panting with exertion, they dashed across the Atrium floor towards Hermione and the others.

"The - _Aurors_ -" the tall blond-haired man managed to choke out, planting a heavy hand on the fountain's brim to support himself. " _All of them_ \- they're - they're-"

"They're what?" Hermione demanded of the man - but suddenly, he foamed at the mouth, screamed and slid to the floor, lifeless. Harper clapped a hand to her mouth in horror; Ron cursed; a strange gleam came into Ginny's eyes. All around, fear suddenly flared into life in the workers of the Ministry's eyes.

"They're _poisoned_ ," said Natalie the brown-haired Auror in a sad, quiet voice. "They were all having a drink of water - I said I didn't want any... _Simon..._ "

Her face went pale as a sheet as she stared down at the dead Auror. Frantically, Hermione turned to Ron and Ginny. "He's already here," she said, already running towards the lifts. "The rest of you stay here. Ron, Ginny, Harper, Natalie, come on!"

Two minutes later, they skidded to a halt. Hermione and Ron were first into the Auror Office; Ginny, Harper and Natalie trailed just behind. The room was full of bodies. A few stirred weakly as Hermione approached, horrified; more didn't. Harper looked away uncomfortably; for a moment, Hermione swore she saw Ginny's mouth twitch towards a smile. "Bloody hell..." Ron murmured, pale-faced, stepping over the limp extended arm of a face-down Auror. "How..."

"Wands out," Hermione interrupted softly, turning to the others. "They're here."

"But - how can _he_ be here?" Ginny stammered. "Ri- _Riddle_?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, raising her wand to chest height, "but he is. Keep your eyes open."

She knelt to examine one of the bodies - and it was then that they heard a distant scream. "Oh, what now-" began Harper, but Hermione raised a hand for quiet.

The sounds were distant, but there; shouting, screams, fighting. "That's coming from the Atrium," she realised. "Come on."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "We're running _again_?"

Hermione gave her a funny look. It wasn't like Ginny to be so crass. But there wasn't time for that now, so ignoring the red-haired woman's outburst, Hermione hurried back towards the lifts, Ron hot on her heels. She feared what they might find. She had left the few Ministry workers that had chosen to fight in the Atrium. Had they been slaughtered too? Two minutes later, Hermione had her answer. The lift down was the most nervous ten seconds of her life. All the while, she tapped her foot impatiently - and then the golden doors swished open, revealing the Atrium - the _deserted_ Atrium.

The only sound was the soft trickle of fountain-water, and the _scuff-scuff_ of Hermione's boots on granite, and one distant flickering fire at the other end of the Atrium. She didn't understand, Hermione thought frantically, running forward into the Atrium, glancing from side to side - they were here _five minutes ago_! "Oh dear," Ginny remarked dryly, glancing towards the Floo-fire burning fifty feet away in one of the alcoves that lined the walls. "Seems something scared our brave workers away."

"Ginny..." Heart hammering, Hermione turned towards her step-sister to make some chastising remark - but then she saw it, and froze. Ginny's wand was levelled unseen at the nape of Natalie the Auror's neck. Too late, Hermione reached for her own wand.

" _Stupefy!"_ Ginny yelled.

At that range, a Stunner was devastating. Natalie's head snapped forward with a sickening crunch, and the Auror's limp body was blasted across the room. She bounced once on the granite floor, skidded, then crashed to a halt against the white-marble of the fountain. By then, both Hermione and Ron had their wands levelled at Ginny's chest - but, for just an instant, seeing those oh-so-familiar brown eyes, they hesitated.

Ginny laughed cruelly. "You know, there's a thousand more effective spells," she said, "but there's something satisfying about a Stunner, isn't there?"

" _Stupefy_!" Ron bellowed.

Ginny deflected it as if swatting aside a curious fly on a summer evening. The deflected red blast hit Ron in the chest. He staggered, forced back a step, sunk to one knee - and then Ginny's white-hot curse finished him off. The second Hermione saw that curse fly past - felt its heat, its raw _power_ \- she knew this wasn't Ginny who stood before her. It was _her_. Hermione sent a curse of her own flying towards Not-Ginny. Grinning, her eyes gleaming so maliciously that Hermione wondered how she could have ever been deceived, Not-Ginny deflected Hermione's curse into the ceiling. For a long moment she stared at Hermione, Not-Ginny's head tilted curiously, mockingly to the side - and then she shook her head, and Ginny no longer stood there.

It was a pale-skinned woman with long jet-black hair. Elizabeth. For what seemed to Hermione like a very long time, they stared at each other, circling slowly on the dark-granite floor of the Atrium. "You're not going to attack me?" Hermione enquired in a voice that sounded a lot braver than she felt.

Elizabeth smiled. "You are my brother's to kill."

"Am I?" Hermione sent another curse towards Elizabeth, but the woman dodged it nimbly. "What shall we do now, then? Play cards?"

Elizabeth said nothing more, and onwards they circled. Harper was still cowering by the fountain, taking shelter from the flashing curses. When Hermione had the fallen Ron at her back, she risked a glance over her shoulder, and saw that her husband was regaining his feet. "You OK, Ron?" she called, eyes already back on the pale-skinned witch, watching this unfold with a curious smile.

"I've been better," he grumbled, scrabbling to his feet wand in hand.

As he stepped to Hermione's side she raised her wand, ready to strike at the black-haired witch - but then Elizabeth's crimson eyes flitted over her shoulder to something beyond, something tall and pale in the corner of Hermione's eye, and she realised how perfectly she had been sewn up. There was only one thing to do. She risked a momentary glance at Ron, and saw understanding in his eyes. "Now!" she yelled, whirling towards Tom Riddle, her wand already levelled towards his chest. " _STUPEFY_!"

Riddle was caught off guard by the speed of her attack. He barely got his Shield Charm up in time, and staggered backwards under the force of Hermione's curse. Behind her, she knew Ron and Harper would be duelling Elizabeth, but she couldn't risk a look. She had to press the attack. " _Stupefy_!" she yelled, again and again, and Riddle backed away frantically. The words of untold curses rose to his lips, again and again, but Hermione chased them away with a Stunning Spell. He didn't have time to counterattack. One Stunner grazed that handsome black hair; another slipped through Riddle's guard, hitting him in the arm, spinning him round - and for a second Riddle stumbled, and his wand slipped to his side.

Hermione slashed her wand and, beneath Riddle, the granite floor fell away. He fell with it. The last thing Hermione saw was a pair of confused crimson eyes. Victorious, she muttered " _Duro_ ," and the floor resealed itself in the space where Tom Riddle had fell. Hermione turned away, cheeks flushed. She hoped it was a long fall. She turned away and saw Ron blasted across the Atrium again, arms flailing wildly. Every fibre of her being wanted to rush to him, but she knew she couldn't. First, she had to deal with Elizabeth.

The girl's nose was flared in anger, her slitted eyes flashing dangerously as she saw Hermione turning towards her. Behind Elizabeth, Harper dawdled awkwardly, but the pale-skinned witch ignored her.

"Missing your brother?" Hermione enquired lightly.

Snarling, Elizabeth slashed her wand wildly. Sensing, somehow, that a Shield Charm might be of little use in deflecting _this_ spell, Hermione dived aside. Elizabeth's curse passed by with a muffled _whump_ , and Hermione rolled to her feet. She flicked her wand, and long grasping tendrils snaked towards Elizabeth, groping, grasping. One wrapped around the girl's waist, and began to squeeze and squeeze - until Elizabeth yelled furiously and the tendrils burst into flames.

The fires raced along the ropes coiled around Elizabeth's waist as if they had been dipped in oil, and before Hermione's eyes the burning ropes came alive, hissing spitting serpents that leapt towards her. If she had been a little quicker - if Hermione had had the reflexes of Dumbledore, say, or even Snape or McGonagall - she would have flicked her wand towards the fountain. The water would have risen into the air, flew towards her, doused the flaming ropes out. Hermione could then have turned the fountain-water into a watery spear, plunged straight towards Elizabeth's icy heart. The heart that had killed Rose.

This, in the millisecond before the burning ropes coiled around her throat, went through Hermione's mind. But she wasn't that fast. She could only watch.

Watch - and see the onrushing blur in the corner of her eyes. Harry crashed into her like a freight train, bowling her over, knocking Hermione to the granite floor with a bone-shaking _thump_. They rolled once, twice, then were on their feet. Elizabeth's curse singed the floor where they had lain, but already the pale-skinned girl's attention was elsewhere, duelling Neville and Luna and the real Ginny. As Hermione watched, Elizabeth ducked an Impediment Hex from Luna, took two hasty steps backwards, threw an off-balance curse towards Neville, who stepped aside neatly, then dived aside out of the path of a rampaging Bat-Bogey Hex.

As Elizabeth leapt to her feet and felled Ginny with a slash of her wand, more were flooding into the room all the time; Bill and George and Charlie and Teddy Lupin and more. "Where's Tom?" Harry asked urgently, shouting in Hermione's ear to be heard over the din. "Where is he?"

"He-" Hermione ducked reflexively as a colossal blast from Elizabeth's wand sent Neville, Luna and Bill skidding back six feet- "he fell."

Harry blinked. "Fell where?"

"Er-"

But Hermione was interrupted by a colossal crash. Granite dust suddenly choked the air as the floor exploded upwards and a figure rose from below, tall, dark, terrible, scarlet eyes burning. "Tom-" Harry began softly.

Riddle's curse took him in the chest. Limp, Harry crumpled to the floor, whether unconscious or dead Hermione could not tell. Too late, she reached for her wand, though Riddle's second curse was already flashing her way. Dimly, in the corner of her eye, she noticed the air shimmering, and a flash of red appearing as if from nowhere. But it was too late-

" _Protego_!" Lily yelled, as her father's Invisibility Cloak slid to the floor. Tom Riddle's curse rebounded harmlessly, and too late, those scarlet eyes slid towards Lily. " _Stupefy_!" she screamed furiously.

Lily's curse swatted Riddle from the air. He fell to the ground, slid ten feet, then crashed into the black-stone wall. Dazed, he didn't stir. Distantly, at the far end of the Atrium, Hermione heard Elizabeth's desperate last stand continuing, but she knew it couldn't last. _We've won_! Hermione was jubilant. She turned to Lily, but the twenty-one year-old girl was at her fallen father's side. Hermione saw Harry's eyes flutter open weakly, and her jubilation only grew. Glancing around, she searched for the nearest warm body to hug.

"We did it!" she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around her young secretary, who looked oddly glum considering recent events. "Harper, we did it!"

"I'm sorry, Minister," Harper replied in a sad whisper.

"Sorry for wha-"

And then Hermione screamed. Staggering away from the younger woman, she saw the knife protruding from her ribs. _No_ , she thought, grasping for the knife's hilt with suddenly-feeble hands, _no, this isn't fair, Harper please, Harry, Ron, Rose, someone help me-_

Hermione slumped to the midnight-granite floor. As the world faded to black, the last thing she heard was a girl's scream, and frenzied footsteps, and a high, cold laugh.


	29. The Beginning of the End

_The Beginning of the End_

* * *

Tom walked alone through a shattered world.

 _It wasn't supposed to be this way_ , he thought weakly, footsteps echoing faintly through the hissing rain. Diagon Alley was deserted, the gates of Gringotts closed and barred. Like so many others, the goblins had fled overseas. _I was supposed to rule. I would have been a good ruler. A fair ruler._ Instead...the rain seemed to follow him wherever he walked.

In Hogsmeade, there were signs of life - a candle-flame in a window, hastily snuffed out, or footprints in the mud, or window-shutters hurriedly slammed shut - but at the first sign of the tall, pale-skinned man with tousled black hair, Hogsmeade fell silent. They had realised, it seemed, that if they hid long enough, he would go away. On its high hill stood Hogwarts, resolute, defiant, warm orange light streaming from its many windows. Longbottom and Lovegood held the castle and its students. If only he and Elizabeth had been able to seize Hogwarts and the children, they might have been able to force the wizarding world into accepting their rule, but...

Instead, it had fallen apart. Granger, always the most dangerous, had died, and in the chaos that followed Tom and Elizabeth had seized the advantage. Potter, his wife, Ron Weasley and a dozen others were locked up in Azkaban, guarded by Inferi-creatures Elizabeth had summoned up from god-knows-where. The Ministry was theirs, the Aurors dead, the workers fled, but Tom knew his and Elizabeth's victory was a hollow thing.

 _Queen_ , Elizabeth had declared herself to a court of two; _in name only_ , Tom had thought privately. _Queen of what? An empty Ministry building?_ Tom and Elizabeth had no employees, no subjects, no courts, no laws; the wizarding world was a plate that had crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces, and there was no use in claiming the fragments. Some had fled overseas. Most of the shop-owners, businessmen and other such luminaries - famed Quidditch players, novelists, wireless performers, Hugo Weasley, Albus Potter - were gone, and Tom had heard they were seeking help from the International Confederation of Wizards.

Others had vanished underground. Most, however, remained in their homes, waiting patiently for someone to save them from the monsters. Diagon Alley had not seen a customer in six months. The Ministry, not a single visitor. St. Mungo's, not a single patient. In Hogsmeade, Godric's Hollow, Ottery St. Catchpole and a thousand other poky villages and towns up and down the country, witches and wizards bided their time. They took Muggle jobs, ate Muggle food, made Muggle friends. When Tom or his sister came near, the doors slammed shut, and they just... _waited_.

Tom found himself imagining their thoughts now; _just stay quiet, they'll go away, they always do. They'll go away. They'll go away._ He smiled darkly. That was exactly what the wizarding world hoped would happen; he and his sister would go away. And what _else_ could he and Elizabeth do? Including the ever-more-useless Harper, they were only three; the entire country was cowering like frightened rabbits in their burrows, and they couldn't make them _all_ come out. No matter how many threats they made, no matter how many innocent people they killed, not all. Not nearly all.

The wizarding world would never accept the half-baked leadership of a greedy girl, a madwoman and a fool, no matter how much they feared Tom and Elizabeth. They would never accept the rule of three murderers. They would hide until someone slew the monsters, then they would come out, and everything would be fine again. Some worthy soul would sweep up the pieces of the broken plate, and Tom's brief ignominious rule would be consigned to the history books. He was almost resigned to it by now.

Not for the first time, Tom wondered what those selfsame history books might make of him. _Monster, no doubt. Freak. Murderer. Betrayer. I wonder if they'll ever mention that I used to enchant quills and nibs and odds and ends, used to make them sparkle and shine and sing, all to impress a girl._ Somehow, he doubted it. And now, that very girl wanted nothing more than to slit Tom's throat. At the thought of Lily, Tom glanced over his shoulder nervously, as he had already a thousand times today, but there was nothing behind him but the rain, spattering loudly on Diagon Alley's cobbles.

Nothing visible, anyway. For all he knew Lily could be here right now, hiding under that damnable cloak of hers. The girl had escaped the battle at the Ministry, and Tom held no comforting illusions; Lily meant to kill him. She was plotting, he knew, working from some hidden place to bring down Tom and Elizabeth's shambolic reign. Lily would kill Harper, and Elizabeth, and Tom. He would die screaming.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.

* * *

Much, much later, as Tom sat on the broken steps of an ice-cream parlour he had once frequented, he heard a woman's demented scream. _It's not fair!_ For a wild, panicked moment, Tom thought Lily had finally come for him - but then he recognised his sister's dulcet tones, and felt the familiar taste of her anger seeping into his bones. _Why won't it work?_ she cried. As she continued to rant and rage, Tom grimaced. This was a strange form of Legilimency that they had uncovered on their travels, allowing the siblings to speak telepathically at great distances, but its effects were more permanent than Tom would have liked. He and his sister had always had a... _special_ connection.

Even when she was chained up in the tower, Elizabeth had been watching Tom, waiting until the time was right to send her dreams and free herself. If Tom hadn't loved his sister so, he might have been bitter. That tower had driven him virtually insane over those few short weeks at Hogwarts. Without the jagged spire flashing before his eyes every second, without the electric throbbing in his temple, would Tom have snapped? Would he have killed Smith? Tortured Lily? Without Elizabeth to egg him on, would he have committed even a hundredth of the atrocities he had caused over the last five years? Somehow, he thought not.

Sighing, Tom climbed to his feet. He supposed he had better see what Elizabeth was so angry about. Tom turned on the spot; raindrops streamed into his eyes, blinding him; and then he disappeared into thin air with a loud _pop_. When he opened his eyes, he stood in an unfamiliar room deep within the bowels of the Ministry. Below Tom faded stone steps, worn smooth by the aeons of time, cascaded down to a dais on which a tattered veil fluttered beneath a stone arch.

His dear sister stood atop the dais, attended by Harper and three of her Inferi. Pale, ragged creatures they were, eyes glazed and lifeless, skin clammy and cold. The sight of them sent a shudder down Tom's spine. His sister was arguing with the only Unspeakable that remained in the Ministry - an old man dressed in faded-grey robes, with only a tuft of white hair remaining to him. In that moment, as Elizabeth's scarlet eyes gleamed in fury, her pale index finger extended accusingly towards the old Unspeakable, her nose flared, she had never looked more alien to Tom. More inhuman.

 _More like she really is. Oh Tom, what have you done_? Hurriedly, he descended the stone steps towards his sister before she killed someone else.

"Why won't it work?" she was shouting again. A bubbling cauldron lay at her feet, full to the brim with a curious milky-pale substance; Elizabeth kicked it over furiously. She hadn't even realised Tom was here.

"Why can't I bring him back, Croaker?" she demanded. "I've tried _everything_! Every potion, every charm - I've talked to every bloody tinpot witch or warlock or shaman in the world who claims to be able to raise the dead, and still - and _still_..." she sunk to her knees, her fingers pressed against her temple, face contorted in pain. "I can _feel him_ , Croaker. He - he's _angry_ \- he's _burning me_ -"

"Elizabeth?" Tom called cautiously, stepping between the three Inferi towards his sister. One grabbed his arm, but Tom threw the creature's arm off. "What's wrong?"

Slowly, fearfully, Elizabeth's scarlet slits slid upwards to Tom. Behind the manic tangle of her hair, Elizabeth's eyes were wide and desperate. She was _crying_. "I - I _can't_ \- I can't do it," she muttered frantically. "I can't bring Father back, I _can't_ \- I've failed him, he's angry, he's..." leaping forward, she grabbed the front of Tom's robes. "I just want the burning to stop. _Please_ , Tom."

Tom staggered backwards. _She still wants to bring Lord Voldemort back_? He could scarcely believe it. _I thought she was done with this madness._ "Elizabeth..." he said uncertainly, placing a tentative hand on her pale shoulder - but just as soon she had sprung to her feet, gesturing wildly with her wand towards the old Unspeakable. At her feet, the milky, gloopy potion-substance was corroding the crumbly-black stone.

"Explain this," she commanded of the Unspeakable, stabbing her wand downwards towards the spilt potion. Behind thick spectacles, the man Elizabeth had named Croaker followed her gaze. His face was admirably calm, Tom thought, considering the madwoman waving her wand in his face.

"In certain circumstances, the soul can be restored, my queen," Croaker said quietly, "but Lord Voldemort's soul was destroyed. No potion or charm will return him to you. Even the fabled Resurrection Stone might not do it."

Elizabeth barely paused. "I've seen the rooms you have in this Department of Mysteries," she snapped. "That one with the big bell jar, and the clocks. _Time._ You have Time Turners here, Father knew about them. Where are they?" She shoved her wand against Croaker's throat. " _Where - are - they_?"

Tom slid his wand out of his robes. In the corner of his eye he saw Harper edging steadily backwards towards the stairs. "Elizabeth, this is ridiculous," he said soothingly, placing a hand on his sister's shoulder - _not_ the hand in which he held his wand. "Who cares about Voldemort? We're what matters, not ancient history."

But Elizabeth shrugged his hand off, her eyes still fiercely fixed on Croaker. "All the - _Time Turners_ \- were destroyed," Croaker choked out. "The secret - _was lost_..."

"What about this, then?" Elizabeth continued frantically, turning to the ragged-black veil that fluttered softly beneath the grand stone arch. "I know there's dead people behind it, I can hear them. Is my father behind there?"

Croaker hesitated - too long. Elizabeth swiped her wand madly, and the old Unspeakable fell to the ground with a shout of pain. Swivelling on her heels, Elizabeth gestured to one of her Inferi. " _You_ ," she hissed in Parseltongue. " _Go in there. Find my father._ "

As the Inferius, dutiful to the last, stepped through the tattered veil, Tom seized his sister by the arm and spun her forcefully towards him. "Elizabeth, this is madness," he warned. "Have you completely lost your mind? Why are you doing this?"

She seemed to barely register Tom's scolding. Her eyes, gleaming and wild, were fixed on the archway and the fluttering veil. The Inferius had somehow _disappeared inside_ ; Tom peered around the arch, but the pale creature had not emerged. Tom shook his sister by the shoulders. "Elizabeth-"

She struck his hand with the tip of her wand. When Tom, cursing, pulled his hand away, there was a hot scorch mark upon his skin. " _This_ is my purpose in life, brother," Elizabeth hissed, her wand levelled at his chest. "You may have forgotten our father, but I will not. _Never._ " She gestured at the second of her Inferi. "You. Tie this around your waist and go through the veil." She flicked her wand and a thick coiled rope appeared on the floor. Elizabeth gestured at the last of her creatures. "You. Hold the rope."

Both nodded. Tom could only stand back and watch in disbelief as the Inferius tied the rope securely around its waist. Tossing the other end of the rope to its companion, it stepped through the grand stone archway. The rope snapped taut - and then went slack. A dopey expression on its clammy dead face, the last of the creatures tugged gently on the rope. When it flew back through the fluttering veil, the Inferius was gone, a ring of rope hanging loosely in its place.

Elizabeth cursed furiously. She slashed her wand through the air, and Tom flinched as he saw a sudden flash of green light, but the curse wasn't intended for him. The last Inferius crumpled to the floor, smouldering and burning until it was little more than a pile of foul-smelling ash. Without pause, Elizabeth strode to the edge of the dais, her back to Tom. When she spoke, however, her voice was surprisingly soft.

"Tom, tell our little pets to leave, please," she said. Tom flashed a glance at Harper and Croaker, and both scurried gratefully up the stairs to safety. "Research that Resurrection Stone you mentioned, Croaker," Elizabeth called. "Tell me where it is by tomorrow and I may not flay you alive."

When they were alone, Tom turned back to Elizabeth. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded. "Have you been trying to bring him back this entire time? Why haven't you _told_ me?"

She said nothing, though another tear splashed to the stony ground. Cautiously, Tom moved to her side. He reached up a hand to place on her shoulder-

" _Don't - touch - me_!" Elizabeth hissed, whirling to face Tom. "Understand this, brother. Our father was the greatest wizard of all time. We owe everything we have to him."

Tom laughed harshly. "What do we _have_ , Elizabeth?" He gestured towards their surroundings. "A dusty old building? This isn't what we wanted."

"I _want_ Father back. The fact that you don't disgusts me, Tom."

"Do you really want him back?" he asked. "Or do you just want this bloody _burning_ you keep going on about to stop?"

In answer, Elizabeth pushed roughly past Tom. As she stormed up the stone steps, the air almost crackling with her anger, Tom called after her. "Where are you going?"

"To kill some of your precious Muggles," she snapped over her shoulder. "It's what Father would have wanted."

Dismayed, Tom watched her go. _Was she always this insane_? Shaking his head, he turned to follow his sister up the steps. As he walked past the tattered veil, however, Tom could have sworn he heard a whisper. "Hello?" he murmured fearfully. "Granger? Rose? I didn't kill you. They all say I did, but I didn't." Whoever was behind the veil, there was no reply. "James?"

Nothing.

Disquieted, Tom walked away.

* * *

Harper stepped gratefully through her apartment door, dripping wet and frozen to the bone. She tossed her jacket across the back of an armchair, kicked her sodden boots off, and hurried through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. It had been an awful day, all things considered. Elizabeth had threatened to kill her three times. Once because Harper was late to arrive at the Ministry. The second time, because Harper refused to muck out the Chimaera's cage. Even now she shuddered at the smell. The third time...

Well, that entire business down in the Department of Mysteries was ridiculous. There were times when she regretted sticking a knife in Hermione Granger's ribs. Sure, the pay was good, but there was nowhere to _spend_ Galleons anymore, and the company...

The kettle's whistling rose to a scream. It was only then that Harper realised she was not alone.

"Hello, Harper," Lily said pleasantly, stepping into the kitchen.

Harper dived for her wand, but Lily was too fast. The red-haired woman flicked her wand lazily, and Harper's wand went sailing across the kitchen. Another swipe of Lily's wand, and somehow Harper was on the floor, frozen still as stone, staring upwards with wide fearful eyes.

Another swipe of Lily's wand, and Harper was drowning in darkness.


	30. Broken

_Broken_

* * *

He looked a broken man.

His jet-black hair, always so untidy, now fell raggedly to his shoulders. His robes were filthy, faded-grey, fraying at the knees, caked with dust and mud. His lower face was covered in unshaven, ugly stubble, and his eyes were closed, seemingly in brief fitful sleep. But when Tom stepped up to the steel bars of the cell, Harry Potter's uncomfortably-green eyes blinked open. "Tom," he muttered in greeting, his voice rough and hoarse from lack of use. Potter's tone was even, though there was more than a flicker of revulsion in his eyes.

"Potter," Tom replied, inclining his head in a slight respectful nod. "Can we talk?"

Potter eyed him uncertainly for a long moment, suspicion clear on his dust-caked face - but then he nodded. "I don't suppose I have a choice," he murmured, sliding with an audible _creak_ of underused joints to a seating position atop his narrow stone bed.

"Thank you." Tom brushed his hand across the steel bars that barricaded the entrance to Potter's gloomy cell, and at his touch the metal wilted away into the stone ground. Stooping slightly under the cell's sloped ceiling, he stepped inside. "It's about Lily."

Beneath the stubble and the dirt, Potter's face paled. "She's not-"

"Dead?" Sinking onto a rickety wooden chair at the foot of Potter's bed, Tom smiled thinly. "No, she's very much alive. In fact, just last night she abducted my friend Harper. You know Harper?"

In the gloomy half-darkness of the cramped cell, Tom saw Potter's teeth grit fiercely, and his knuckles whitened as they clutched the end of his stone bed. The hate that Tom saw then from the closest thing he had ever known to a father momentarily discomforted him. "Yes," Potter growled quietly, "I know her. And if Lily's half the woman I know she is, your friend Harper will be in a whole lot of pain round about now."

Tom chuckled softly. "The noble Harry Potter, advocating torture? I thought that was something you left to monsters like me. I'm shocked."

"If you knew your history, you wouldn't be."

Several moments passed in silence. The only sounds to be heard in the ancient prison of Azkaban were the distant shuffling footsteps of Elizabeth's patrolling Inferi-guards, Potter's rattling breathing, and the muffled snores of Ron Weasley in the next cell over. "Elizabeth thinks we should kill one of you," Tom remarked suddenly. "One of the prisoners. An eye for an eye, she says." Abruptly, Tom leapt to his feet and strode to the open entrance of the cell. "I disagree," he said.

Potter laughed harshly. "What do you want, Tom, a medal?"

His back turned to Potter, Tom smiled ruefully. "I'm not my sister, you know," he said softly, turning back towards the ragged black-haired man. Potter's scar was a blazing scarlet line across his grimy forehead. "Nor am I Lord Voldemort."

Potter's face darkened, and the older man rested his head back against the crumbling stone wall of the cell. "What do you want, Tom?" he asked, eyes closed. "If you're here to kill me, do it. If you want me to help you capture Lily...well, you'll have to kill me first."

 _Why am I here_? Tom didn't truly know, except... "I was just wondering," he said. Curiously, the man's distinctive green eyes flickered open. _The wrong colour - but still, so like Lily's._ "Wondering, perhaps, whether the Potters had any forgiveness in their hearts."

Potter met Tom's eyes. "Ask Voldemort."

* * *

Elizabeth was feeding her pet Chimaera when Tom told her.

"We have a visitor," he said, as she levitated dripping chunks of raw meat through the three-inch-thick steel bars of the cage. His sister was sprawled lazily on the floor beside the great steel cage, her hair dishevelled and tangled, her wispy-black robes hanging loosely on her skeletal frame. She was too thin, Tom realised with a pang of worry; her skin seemed almost stretched too tightly, like a snake about to shed. _What has she been doing to herself_? When Elizabeth turned to face Tom, her eyes were shining scarlet lamps in the sunken hollows of her face, and her skin was deathly-pale.

"Who?" she asked softly.

"An envoy from the International Confederation of Wizards." Despite himself, Tom smiled as the Chimaera snaked its long barbed tongue between the steel bars to lick his sister's offered hand. "She wants to talk to us."

"Very well," Elizabeth sighed, tossing the last of the meat chunks into the cage. As she rose to her feet, the Chimaera purred affectionately. Elizabeth held out an icy-cold hand towards Tom, and for a moment all was well between the two siblings again. "Shall we?"

* * *

Gabrielle Delacour was, undeniably, an elegant woman. Dressed in flowing silk robes of midnight blue, her platinum-blonde hair pulled back into a prissy bun, she stood straight-backed and proud as Tom and Elizabeth stepped into the Atrium. Her haughty, handsome face was fixed in an unreadable mask. A silvery brooch - Earth, flanked by a pair of twinned wands, the insignia of the International Confederation of Wizards - gleamed on her chest.

"Good morning, Madam Delacour," Tom called politely as he and his sister crossed the Atrium towards her.

Delacour inclined her head in the slightest grudging nod. "Good morning," she echoed frostily.

Tom swept his wand towards the envoy and three cushy armchairs appeared from thin air before Delacour. Tom took one, the blonde-haired woman another; Elizabeth declined, preferring to prowl the black-granite floor, circling the two over and over again. Each time she stepped behind Delacour, head tilted askew as she curiously regarded their visitor, the envoy stiffened - though her face remained implacably calm. Now, as Elizabeth circled back towards Tom, Delacour leaned forward, her fingers steepled in her lap.

"Before we get to business," she said, iron mask slipping slightly to reveal some long-suffered pain, "I hope you will allow me to ask a personal question."

"Fire away."

"My sister is Fleur Delacour," the envoy explained, eyes darting from Tom to the prowling Elizabeth as she approached again. "She was married to Bill Weasley. She was at your Ministry of Magic when - when you took it. Is my sister still alive?"

Tom smiled. _Why is it they always assume the worst of me? Probably the murders._ "I _thought_ you looked familiar," he said, with the satisfaction of scratching a nagging itch. "Fleur? _Fleur_...yes, she's alive. I saw her this morning, actually."

Delacour's face betrayed nothing, but her eyes flashed with relief - and then suspicion. "And Harry Potter?" she asked. "Ginny Weasley, Ronald Weasley-"

"All alive," Tom interrupted dismissively. "I'm not in the habit of murdering prisoners, Madam Delacour." _Just innocents._

"A shame," said Elizabeth suddenly, skulking to a halt behind Delacour's back. The blonde-haired envoy was forced to twist in her chair to face her. "My Chimaera is always hungry, and live prey is always _so_ hard to come by. Your dear sister _does_ look tasty..."

Tom and Delacour exchanged a brief, uncomfortable glance. "Er - very well, then," said Delacour, her diplomat's mask once more in place. "Forgive my - my indulgence. We have matters to discuss, Mr. Riddle. Given recent events, we at the International Confederation of Wizards are concerned."

"Concerned," Tom repeated dryly.

He knew what would follow. The Confederation, no doubt prodded on and persuaded by Hugo Weasley, Albus Potter and other such luminaries of the British wizarding world, had finally bestirred themselves. Delacour would threaten Tom and his sister with the Confederation's might; their thousands of highly-trained shock troops, their long-range magical weapons, their diplomatic sanctions. Elizabeth would laugh in Delacour's face. Perhaps she would feed the handsome blonde-haired envoy to her Chimaera. Perhaps she would feed the handsome blonde-haired envoy to Delacour's sister. And, sooner or later, the attack would come.

Tom and Elizabeth would die. It had all been rather pointless, hadn't it? Tom had to hand it to Lord Voldemort; his not-quite father's takeover of the wizarding world was a lot more skilful than that of his children.

However, to Tom's surprise, that was not what happened. "Yes, concerned," Delacour said, leaning forwards towards Tom - and at the same time flashing a pointed glance over her shoulder towards Elizabeth. "We've heard troubling reports...dead Muggles..."

"Really?" Tom said icily, scarlet eyes flitting over Delacour's shoulder to his sister. Noticing his gaze, Elizabeth grinned slyly, then resumed her slow skulk around the two. "I hadn't heard."

"Yes - well, we have, Mr. Riddle. Very troubling reports."

"What's a few dead Mudbloods to you?" Elizabeth snarled.

Delacour eyed her coldly. "Everything, Miss Riddle." She turned back to Tom. "Typically, the Confederation does not interfere in the affairs of its member states - regardless of personal feelings on the matter." By that Tom knew she meant _the world wants you two dead._ "But," Delacour continued, "the Confederation _does_ take potential breaches of the International Statute of Secrecy very seriously. We are worried that if the situation in Britain is allowed to continue, it is only a matter of time before you or your sister reveals the existence of the magical world to the Muggles. Obviously, that cannot be allowed to happen."

Tom opened his mouth to assuage Delacour's worries - even _he_ wasn't fool enough to consider revealing the magical world to the Muggles - but Elizabeth, standing behind Tom, her white-as-bone hands gripping his armchair to either side of his body, cut smoothly over him. " _Allowed_?" she scoffed, laughing coldly. "Who are _you_ to dictate to us? We are the blood of Lord Voldemort. _We_ do as we please. _You_ are nothing."

Again, turning urgently to face his sister, Tom tried to speak - but Elizabeth placed an icy-cold finger to his lips, and Tom was struck dumb. As he moved his lips wordlessly, Elizabeth's ruby-red eyes turned maliciously to Delacour. "So it's true?" the blonde-haired envoy asked stiffly.

"Yes," said Elizabeth. "Our worlds will crash together, and once the dust has settled _I_ will rule over all." She laughed simperingly. "It's what Father would have wanted."

Wordlessly, Delacour rose to her feet. Turning on the spot, she vanished with a loud _pop_. As soon as she was gone, Tom rounded furiously on his sister. "Elizabeth, this is insane."

She laughed shrilly. " _Insane_? This is the first reasonable thing I've done in six months, brother. Six months I've waited, doing nothing while you moped around all day over your _dear lost Lily._ " Elizabeth spat the last three words out, then spread her arms wildly. "What do we have? Nothing. We've even lost your sickening little pet Harper. Do you think _Father_ sat around all day, letting his enemies grow stronger while his own strength dwindled away to nothing? No. He _acted_. So must we."

She held out a hand towards Tom. He could make out the individual bones and veins beneath the skin. "I've planned it all," she told him, a fervent gleam in her eyes. Was it his imagination, or were they duller than they used to be? Less full of life? Less... _human_? "We will place the leaders of the Mudblood world under the Imperius Curse. With their aid, we will reveal ourselves. The Mudbloods will adore us. They are, above all, lazy, and now they will have a magical solution for every problem! We can use them to destroy our enemies, then seize control of the world."

Tom took a slow, frightened step back. "This is insane," he repeated. "It'll never work. You'll destroy _everything_ we've ever known for the sake of - what, Lord Voldemort's whims?"

" _Don't call him that_!" she screamed dementedly, sparks erupting from the end of her clutched wand. "He's your _father_!"

"Never," Tom said simply. "And if you do this, Elizabeth, you're not my sister. You're not some puppet dancing on Voldemort's strings. You're much, much more than that. Prove it, please." His hand twitched towards his wand, tucked into the waistband of his robes. "I _won't_ let you do this. This is insane."

"This is what Father wanted," she said, scarlet eyes flashed dangerously. "How do you propose to stop me, brother?"

Tom stared, aghast, at the madwoman who was suddenly, fearfully alien to him. _She's changed_ , he realised. _Her skin, her eyes, her face, her mind - what have you done to yourself, Elizabeth_? His fingertips brushed the tip of his wand - but then he smiled ruefully, and turned away. "Not _this_ way," he sighed. "Not yet. But I won't let you do this, Elizabeth. You'll tear the world apart." _My world._ Tom's voice softened slightly, and he took his sister's hand for perhaps the last time. "The Muggles will kill you."

"They are vermin," she hissed. "Vermin are not to be feared."

Shaking his head in dismay, Tom turned and disappeared with a loud _pop_.


	31. Her

_Her_

* * *

In the cold and rain, Tom waited. _She'll come_ , he thought, as he shivered on the orphanage steps. _She has to. She'll listen to me._

A gloomy, drizzly haze had settled over the village of Hogsmeade. All Tom could see through the swirling fog were distant chimneys, rooftops and spires, and the faintest outline of the Shrieking Shack on its tall hill. On one rooftop perched a slender black cat with a stubby white-tipped tail, staring curiously at Tom with gleaming slitted-yellow eyes. Below Tom, the well-worn track that wound through the village had been turned to a muddy quagmire by the ceaseless rain. The steps were spattered with puddles, and behind Tom, the orphanage doors were bolted and chained shut.

For a while, he wondered what had become of all those he had known here, for better or worse, in his youth. There was Aaron and Sally, who had tormented Tom ceaselessly until he learned to fight back. And the matron, said to have lost her husband in the fight against Lord Voldemort, who always reserved a stinging hand and a look of particular disdain for Tom. Sarah, the nurse, who had always had a kind word for Tom. How many times, as a child cowering in his bedroom, nursing bruises, licking wounds, had he sworn he would one day take revenge on Aaron, Sally and the matron? Yet when the time had come, Tom had quite forgotten about them. He wondered where they were now.

Or what about those few others who had treated Tom like a human being? Old Mr. Ollivander, who had sold Tom his first wand and told him he would do great things. Professor Slughorn, Tom's Head of House for six years at Hogwarts, always ready with a kind word and a sly wink. Wesley Nott, who Tom had befriended in his early years at Hogwarts. Aaron, Sally, Sarah, the matron, the others; they were all dead or fled, Tom supposed, with a strange pang of - _regret?_ After that, his thoughts had turned to old enemies. Pretty blonde-haired Elizabeth Selwyn, who would speak kind words to Tom's face then pen cruel ones behind his back. Scorpius and Draco Malfoy, plotting Tom's death while he was only a boy. And James Potter, relentlessly cruel until the last.

 _He was the only one_ , Tom thought, with a little flicker of petulance. _I didn't kill Rose, it was Elizabeth. I didn't kill Granger, it was Harper. Even James, we did it together._ But still, she blamed him for all three, and still she didn't come. More than once, his thoughts turned to Elizabeth. More than once, Tom wondered why he was doing this. He was fairly sure that if it came to a fight, he could defeat his sister. It didn't even need to come to that, really. It would be all too easy to walk up behind his unsuspecting sister and stick a knife between her ribs, or blast her into oblivion with the Killing Curse. So why didn't he? _Because_ , he thought, _once Elizabeth is gone, I'll have nothing left. No one. I have to try._

Gloomy afternoon had given way to gloomy twilight before she came.

"I'm unarmed," he called, tossing his wand aside. It clattered down the orphanage's stone steps, bouncing once, twice, then coming to a rest in a muddy puddle at her feet. "See?"

Bending, Lily picked up Tom's pale-yew wand. "Good," she said, and snapped Tom's wand in two. Then, she slashed her wand towards Tom, and the world faded to black.

* * *

When Tom's eyes next opened, three figures stood over him. Two were familiar, a young slender red-haired woman and a middle-aged man with receding dark-blonde hair. The third, a woman of an age with the dark-haired man, wore flowing indigo robes. Her eyes were a protuberant silver-grey, her skin pale as milk in the moonlight, and her brilliant-blonde hair fell almost to her waist. Beyond the trio, winged-boar statues flanked a tall black-iron gate. A mud-track snaked off through the trees into the distance. Perched atop one of the winged-boar statues...

Tom almost laughed. Now he _knew_ he was going crazy. Perched atop the nearest winged boar was the very same black cat, gazing quizzically at Tom with piercing-yellow eyes, that he had seen earlier in Hogsmeade. Above him, Lily and Longbottom were arguing about something. The third figure, the blonde-haired woman, crouched over Tom. Her silvery eyes found his, and she placed a soft palm to his forehead. Tom had a moment to wonder what the strange blonde-haired woman was doing - and then the darkness rose up once more.

* * *

This time, when he woke, Tom was chained in darkness.

Now he _did_ laugh. Perhaps he truly was going insane. First the cat perched on the winged-boar statue, a twisted echo of the trick Professor McGonagall and Potter had played on Tom on his very first day at Hogwarts - and now he was back in the tower. Perhaps when he next woke, Tom would only be a twinkle in Lord Voldemort's eye, and his entire life would turn out to have only been one of the Dark Lord's cruel jokes. But, slowly, as his wits returned to him, and his eyes adjusted to the dark, Tom realised that this was not the tower from which Potter had sprung him so long ago. This was a cell, cramped, foul-smelling, the floor cold bare stone.

For a long while he sat, twisted uncomfortably, on the stone floor. His hands and feet were chained together with heavy manacles. A long chain of inch-thick steel links, set high in the wall behind Tom's back, kept his arms contorted uncomfortably close to his body. Similarly his feet were forced beneath him, and soon every muscle in Tom's body was screaming for release. The more he struggled, the tighter the chains grew, and the greater his pain became. More than once, he thought of calling out to his sister using the strange form of Legilimency they had uncovered, but when Tom probed that connection, he found it shattered and broken. Only the occasional fragmented thought slipped through.

 _Probably for the best_ , he thought, as a particularly violent stab of pain shot down his back. _Knowing my sister, she's probably been using it to track me all these years._ How many more secrets had Elizabeth kept from him, Tom wondered? To begin with, what had she done to herself to suddenly become so...inhuman?

An eternity passed before the door swung open. Tom caught the briefest glimpse of a flickering orange torch, and a slender figure in grey-black robes - but then the sudden glare blinded him, and all he could see were a thousand burning, dancing suns. "I wanted to kill you," said a familiar female voice. "I want you to know that."

"Lily?" he asked uncertainly, eyes pressed tightly shut against the searing torchlight. "Is that you?"

Silently, she crossed the room. Tom felt the raw heat of the torch pass by his face, so close it singed the day-old stubble on his cheeks - and then the cold tip of Lily's wand was pressing into the soft pale skin of his neck. "Drink this," she said curtly, raising a glass of water to Tom's cracked lips. Parched, he gulped it down gratefully. It was only when the glass was three-quarters empty that Tom recognised that familiar metallic aftertaste, almost undetectable to the untrained.

"Veritaserum?" he laughed harshly. "Don't you trust me, Lily?"

"Don't do _that_ ," she snapped. Her wand-tip glowed painfully hot, and Lily pushed it hard into Tom's skin. " _Never_ do that. Don't talk to me like - like we're friends. Don't." Silently, he nodded, and Lily tossed the empty water-glass aside. "Lie, and I'll kill you," she hissed. "Why are you here? Why did you give yourself up? Is this a trap?"

Tom was a practiced enough Occlumens to resist the effects of Veritaserum, but he saw no point in lying. "No," he said in a feeble, raspy voice. Slowly, his vision was returning. Squinting, he could make out a pretty, angry face framed by auburn bangs, and a pair of bright-brown eyes. The torchlight was reflected in those eyes, making Lily look quite insane. "No trap."

"Right," she said skeptically. As Lily stepped away, back momentarily turned to Tom, he tried to soothe his scalded neck as best as he could. As he contorted his chains dug into his wrists, drawing hot crimson blood, and he released an involuntary wince of pain. "So tell me," Lily continued, her back still turned, "not that I'm not _thrilled_ by this turn of events, Tom, but what on earth possessed you to give yourself up?"

"It's Elizabeth," he muttered hoarsely, wincing again as he shifted position. _Just be polite_ , he told himself, battling against his rising anger. _Be calm. She has a right to be angry. She has right to treat you like this._ That didn't mean Tom had to like it, however, and he was already growing impatient. "She - she wants to take over the Muggle world. She's going to expose us all. She's crazy."

Glancing over her shoulder towards him, Lily smiled dryly. "Whereas you're a picture of sanity."

Tom had no more patience for Lily's chastising. Elizabeth might act at any moment. The sooner Lily agreed to help him the better. "I can't beat her," he lied. "I need your help, Lily, we don't have time for this bickering-"

" _Bickering_!" she yelled, sweeping back towards him furiously. One hand seized the chains behind Tom's head and _yanked_ , and he screamed. Lily's other hand pressed her wand - bought a lifetime ago, while an eleven year-old Tom stood by her side - into his throat. "Bickering? You murder my brother, my cousin, my aunt and _god knows_ how many other people, and you complain when I _bicker_? You know what?" she hissed. "I think I will kill you."

Tom's eyes followed Lily's furious gaze to where her wand pressed into his pale skin. "You know the words, Lily," he said mildly. "Just remember - you have to mean it..."

For a second, Tom thought she would do it. But then she spun away angrily, and Tom released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. "Sadly," said Lily, "I promised Neville and Luna I wouldn't. Yet."

Tom lurched forward, chains rattling furiously. "Lily, you have to believe me, Elizabeth-"

She slashed her wand and, though Tom's lips continued to move, the words would not come. "I'll be back soon," she said, pausing in the doorway, framed prettily by the flickering torchlight. "Maybe next time I'll get to kill you. Fingers crossed."

Lily slammed the door shut.

* * *

It was not long before Lily returned, however. "Get up," she snapped as she stood in the doorway. She swiped her wand towards Tom, and his chains came away from the wall with a dull _clank_. Another lazy flick, and Tom was yanked roughly to his feet by a great invisible hand. "He wants to see you."

"He?" Tom asked, but Lily ignored him. She turned away as he approached, striding down a torch-lit corridor, and Tom had no choice but to totter unsteadily after her. He recognised his surroundings now; he was in the dungeons of Hogwarts, though deeper than he had ever ventured before. Up and up they walked, past the Potions classrooms and the old, deserted Potion-master's offices, through winding, mazy corridors, up into the warm orange light of the Entrance Hall; and then they were at the grand wooden doors of the Great Hall, and Lily was pushing those doors open.

They looked a sorry bunch. As Lily marched Tom, still shuffling awkwardly in his chains, into the Great Hall of Hogwarts, he saw them; two dozen men and women, clustered around the teacher's table at the other end of the hall. A few, Tom recognised as teachers from his time at Hogwarts. Others had been at the battle at the Ministry, and had fled once Tom and Elizabeth had seized control; but the majority, Tom did not know. They looked weary, and hungry, and tired. There were no students to be seen; evidently, Tom was considered no sight for children. Above, the ceiling of the Great Hall was a starless black sky, though there was a faint hint of sunlight to the east.

Foremost among the crowd were Longbottom and the blonde-haired woman with silver-grey eyes. As Tom and Lily made the long walk between the Slytherin and Gryffindor tables towards the other end of the hall - Lily striding purposefully, Tom shuffling a few steps behind in his chains - Longbottom and the woman in indigo robes stepped forward, bearing something large and rectangular in their arms. "Is this a trial?" Tom laughed dryly. "Do I get a lawyer?"

"Call it penance," boomed a powerful voice. Lily shoved a sharp elbow into Tom's back, forcing him forwards, and Tom saw who the speaker was; a portrait of an old, bearded white-haired man dressed in magnificent purple robes. As Lily forced Tom to his knees, Albus Dumbledore gazed down at him through half-moon spectacles. His eyes were a brilliant twinkling-blue. "Face your crimes, Tom, admit them, accept them, and you may yet leave this room alive."

Standing at Tom's shoulder, wand in hand, Lily balked at that. "Professor Dumbledore-"

"Lily, please," said Dumbledore softly. "Allow an old man his indulgences. I have wanted to speak with Tom for a very long time. I will be brief, I assure you, then you may do whatsoever you wish with Tom." His twinkling-blue eyes returned to Tom, the old man's expression maddeningly calm. "Well, Tom? Speak."

Tom took a deep breath, swallowing his pride, his pain, and his anger at the way he had been treated. He had to make them see. "My sister plans to reveal herself to the Muggles," he began. "She's crazy, she thinks - she thinks she's going to take over the world, or something. She's insane." As the two-dozen-or-so watched on in silence, he gave them a beseeching gaze. "I need your help to stop her. That's why - why I came here."

A long silence followed. And then-

"You expect us to help you?" someone demanded. "You want us to trust _you_?"

"It's a trap," called another, standing at the back of the crowd. All around, there were murmurs of assent, and nods of agreement - all but from the old man gazing down at Tom.

"You see?" said Dumbledore quietly, and instantly the crowd silenced. "You ask the impossible, Tom. Every single person in this room would be quite happy to leave you to rot in your cell - or to see you suffer worse, I am sure. But that is why we are here. For your penance. Your remorse."

Tom took a long, bemused look around at the watching crowd. He was kneeling, and in chains, yet they shrank before his scarlet-eyed gaze. Tom felt a sudden flicker of revulsion for them. _No, I'm not going to play your games, old man_ , he decided suddenly. Saving the world could wait a day or two. "Penance?" he repeated dryly. "I'm not here for _penance_ \- or to waste my time talking to paintings." The Great Hall was deathly silent as he spoke. "I came here because my insane sister needs to be stopped, and I thought you people would be able to help me."

With a maniacal grin, Tom glanced sidelong at Lily. "So this is what you've been doing all this time, Lily? Here I was thinking you were plotting to bring me down, and all the while you were hiding in a castle taking orders from a painting."

Lily tensed, and her face whitened with fury, but she said nothing. "Lily has been doing good work," said Dumbledore curtly. "Tom, you _must_ face your crimes if there is to be any way back for you."

"Face my crimes?" Tom repeated derisively. "Elizabeth is alone out there. The Muggle world is helpless. I'm the only one with even the _slightest_ chance of helping you stop her, and you want me to _face my crimes_?" He rattled his chains violently, and several of the onlooking crowd flinched. "Will I?" he snorted bitterly. "No, I don't think I will."

The look on Dumbledore's face was a strange mixture of sadness and disappointment. "Very well," he sighed, nodding to Lily. "Take him back to his cell."

* * *

Tom had fitful dreams that night.

He dreamt of his sister, and a tall house of green and brown by a river, and dead Muggles, and a small black stone with white scratch-marks on it; and then he was before the Wizengamot again, waiting to be judged by the dead. There were hundreds of them, rows and rows and rows of men and women in deep-plum robes, rising up and up and up to the distant ceiling. Draco Malfoy was there, with his son Scorpius, and his wife Astoria Greengrass, and his six other co-conspirators. Rose Weasley, too, clustered among a cacophony of colour, blue and indigo and toxic-green, all the colours of the workers of the Ministry of Magic. Rose's flame-red hair stood out starkly among the crowd, and Tom felt a pang of sadness as he met the young woman's lifeless eyes.

Turning frantically now, Tom saw Hermione Granger, and James Potter, and Elizabeth Selwyn, and hundreds more. Families he had torn apart. Lives he had snuffed out. There, up to the left, was a warlock he had flayed in the wildernesses of deepest, darkest Australia. Beside the gnarled old warlock, a fresh-faced young woman sat and stared. An American student on a gap year, her only crime had been to stumble into the wrong Tibetan cave at the most fatally wrong of times. Two rows behind her, a pair of newlyweds gazed solemnly down at Tom, their hands clasped together tightly in death. Both had worked at the Ministry, in mid-level jobs in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; for that, Tom and Elizabeth had burned them alive.

Tom felt fear and bile rising in his throat, and still they stared. He tried to flee, but thin steel chains snaked around his wrists and ankles, shredding his tattered black robes, piercing the skin, drawing blood. The droplets, a brilliant crimson, trickled down Tom's arms to the pale-white floor. The sound of the splash, however, was drowned out by footsteps. Tom turned, contorting in his chair, wincing at the stab of pain in his wrists, expecting perhaps to see more dead men. Kingsley Shacklebolt, or Professor Dumbledore, or even Lord Voldemort, come at the end to pass judgement on his son.

Instead it was Lily, and Longbottom, and blonde-haired Luna Lovegood who faced Tom now. Lily looked as she had when she and Tom had first met, a precocious little eleven year-old with bright-red hair tied up in a neat bun. But that little girl had never glared at Tom with such ferocity as she did now, and suddenly Tom realised he was scared.

It was only then, looking down, that he realised he was naked - and Tom woke with a frightened yell. "Be quiet," Lily snapped. She stood before him, wand raised. Behind her back, a soft yellow light was creeping in through the cell's open door. "It's morning," she said. "You're coming with me."


	32. Being Useful

_Being Useful_

* * *

"Get up," Lily snapped.

"Good morning to you too."

She ignored Tom's sarcastic greeting. Lily swiped her wand and Tom's chains - heavy steel manacles fastened around his wrists and ankles - _clinked_ open. "Thank you," he muttered, rubbing his wrists gratefully as he lurched to his feet. All Lily gave in reply was a stiff nod over her shoulder, and then the red-haired woman turned and disappeared from sight. Tom had to hurry to keep up with Lily's purposeful stride as she led him up through the twisting, dimly-lit dungeon corridors; his legs were still half-asleep, and aching from a night's torment to boot. Still, it felt good to be free of his chains, and Tom couldn't resists allowing a little optimism to creep into the pit of his stomach. Today was a new day, after all.

Soon, they emerged from the dingy dungeon corridors into the Entrance Hall. It was bathed in sunlight this morning; the great front doors had been cast open, allowing a gentle breeze and the crisp air of summer to pervade the castle's stuffy interior. Even at this early hour students were all around; chatting happily, eating breakfast, enjoying an early morning stroll through the sunlit grounds. They barely seemed to notice Tom, and he took a little heart from that; maybe the wizarding world wasn't as ruined as he had thought. Hogwarts had went on, after all, as it had for a thousand years before.

Tom had expected Lily to take him back to the Great Hall, or up to the Headmaster's office for another futile lecture on penance from Dumbledore. It came as a pleasant surprise, then, when Lily turned abruptly, and led Tom out through the open front doors into the morning sunlight. As Tom took a deep, happy breath of the fresh air, and looked out over the castle's sprawling, beautiful grounds, Lily turned to him. Tom eyed her warily, expecting another verbal rollicking or worse, but she seemed to have calmed down since last night; or, at least, there was a more measured quality to the hatred in her eyes this morning.

"Let me get one thing straight," she said. "I don't buy any of this redemption rubbish Dumbledore is spouting. You're evil. A monster. Just because you've had a change of heart about Little Miss Voldemort doesn't change that one bit."

"I agree," Tom said.

 _That_ threw her. "You...agree?"

"Yes," he said simply. "I know what I've done. I regret the way things happened - but they happened. I don't _want_ redemption. I want to stop my sister."

Lily chewed her lip uncertainly, and there was suddenly a glimmer of doubt in those bright-brown eyes. "Good," she said eventually. Whether she knew it or not, her tone had softened. "No matter what you do, Tom, I'll never forgive you - but that doesn't mean you can't be useful to me. You were right about your sister, you know. We _can't_ beat her - not without your help. Not without..."

Lily trailed off for a moment, and turned to gaze over the grounds of Hogwarts. She looked troubled. "She killed five Muggles last night near the Houses of Parliament. We've stepped up whatever protections we can, but you were right - it's not enough."

"So we're going after her?" Tom asked excitedly. "Right now? You and me?"

"Did I say that?" Lily said sharply. "Not yet, Tom. You say you want to bring Elizabeth down. You want me to trust you? Time to prove it." There was a fiery glimmer in her eyes as she spoke. "Help me free my parents and the other prisoners. Help me get into Azkaban."

Without pause, Tom nodded. He'd do anything at this point, as long as it meant Lily stopped looking at him like a piece of dirt beneath her boot. "Sure. Let's go."

Lily smiled thinly at his eagerness. "Not _quite_ yet, Tom. Wand or not, sister or not, I still don't trust you as far as I can throw you." Her eyes flitted over Tom's shoulder, to a passing sixth-year Slytherin girl with long blonde curls. "Excuse me?" she called softly. "Daisy, isn't it?"

The girl turned - and yelped with fright when she saw Tom. It was then that he remembered her. "Daisy," he called pleasantly, as the girl stepped timidly into the sunlight towards Tom and Lily. "You've grown up."

Daisy Greengrass could barely meet his eyes. "Yes, Miss Potter?" she asked, hands trembling slightly.

"I just want you to help me with this one little thing," Lily said kindly. "Can you do that?"

Slowly, Daisy nodded. "Take out your wand please, Daisy," Lily said. "Don't worry, you'll be completely fine," she added soothingly as the girl blanched. She turned to Tom. "Take my hand," she said, and it all clicked into place.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked hesitantly. "These things can get messy."

"You want me to trust you?" Lily said pointedly. "There's no better way."

"This isn't trust. This is a leash. A muzzle."

"Back to your cell, then," Lily said slyly. "It's OK, Daisy, I won't need you after all-"

"Fine!" Tom sighed helplessly. "I'll give you your Vow."

He took Lily's small, warm hand in his own, and together they knelt on the damp stone steps. Daisy stood attentively by their side, wand in hand. Lily's eyes, uncomfortably bright in the sunshine, were focused intently on Tom's. "Do you, Tom Riddle, swear never to do harm to me, my family, or my friends ever again?" she asked.

"I do," he sighed. Daisy yelped as a stream of fire shot from the end of her wand to snake its way around Lily and Tom's clasped hands like a red-hot wire. "You're really sewing me up neatly here, aren't you?"

Lily's lips twitched in an almost-smile. "And will you do your utmost to prevent your sister from carrying out her plans?" she asked.

"I will." Another jet of fire, but Daisy didn't twitch this time. _Good girl_.

"And will you follow any order given to you by me, my family or my friends?"

Tom's eyebrow twitched. "That one sounds like it could be abused very easily."

"Just answer."

"Okay, I will." Another coil of fire snapped taut around their clasped hands, then disappeared. "Are we done?" Tom asked.

"One more." A curious gleam came to Lily's eyes, and she seemed suddenly hesitant. "Will you promise to stop this whole bravado thing you do?"

"Bravado?" Tom asked uncertainly.

"You know, your whole 'grinning supervillain' act," Lily said. "The flashing eyes, the smirks, the threats - I don't buy it for a second. That's not you. Stop it."

Tom stared blankly at her for a moment. "How about this?" he suggested finally. "I'll stop my - er, 'grinning supervillain' thing - and you try to treat me like a human being. Like you used to."

Lily must be truly desperate, Tom thought; she barely hesitated before answering. "It's a deal," she said, and another coil of fire snaked from the end of Daisy's wand. As it disappeared, Lily smiled up at the sixth-year girl, and rose to her feet. "Good, Thank you, Daisy," she said, and the blonde-haired girl slid her wand gratefully back into her pocket. Daisy stole one last hurried look at Tom, then dashed back into the castle.

"Now do you trust me?" Tom asked, as Lily helped him to his feet.

"Let's just say I don't think you'll betray me," said Lily. "Ready?"

"Let's go."

Tom took one step forward, expecting perhaps to travel with Lily via Side-Along Apparition - but instead, turning away from him, she lifted two fingers to her mouth and whistled. Tom was about to ask what on earth she was doing when a shadow fell over the sun. Tom heard a shrill, baying call, and looking up, he saw it; a winged horse, skeletal, its coat jet-black. It swooped down over the castle's walls and cantered to a halt before Lily. Nimbly, she leapt on to the Thestral's back and, turning, offered Tom a hand up.

"You know I hate flying," he said, climbing up into the saddle behind Lily.

"Oh, I know," she said with a wry smile. As the Thestral broke into a gentle trot, Tom wrapped his arms around Lily's waist, his stomach suddenly churning nervously. Lily leaned forward. "Azkaban, girl," she murmured, running a hand down the Thestral's smooth, sleek mane. "Go."

* * *

For a long time, they flew in silence through the crisp blue sky. Far beneath them, the endless pine forest gave way to rolling green hills, then sparse moorland speckled with scraggly purplish undergrowth, and then the churning-grey waters of the North Sea. Hours and hours passed, the coastline long since having disappeared from view, and still they flew on. It was a _long_ way to Azkaban. That was why it was such an effective prison, Tom supposed.

"Should we - I don't know - be planning, or something?" he asked, clinging uneasily to Lily's waist as the Thestral beat its great leathery-black wings, lurching upwards to soar away from a flock of persistent seagulls. "I don't have a wand, you know, and Azkaban isn't exactly unguarded. You can't just walk in there."

"That's why I have you," Lily called over her shoulder, yelling to be heard over the howling winds. "You won't need a wand if things go to plan. Who's guarding Azkaban, anyway?"

"Elizabeth's creatures."

"Creatures?"

"Inferi," he explained. "God knows where she found them, but she has a lot of them, and they'll die for her." He hesitated. "Well, they're already dead, but you know what I mean. There was at least twenty of them at Azkaban last time I was there. I can talk to them, but I can't guarantee they'll listen. I get the feeling they don't like me."

"I wonder why."

It was late afternoon before Azkaban came into view. At first a tiny black speck on the horizon, it soon swelled into the tall three-sided tower Tom knew, surrounded on all sides by jagged rocks and bleak grey sky and roiling seas.

"Here's the plan," said Lily, as she sent the Thestral soaring into a high climb, up and up until the prison was a tiny blackness once more beneath them. "We go in together. I'll be under my Cloak." She patted her side, where Tom could see a strange mass of silvery-grey material sticking out from beneath Lily's robes. "We find Mum, Dad and the others. You release them, then conjure up that little portable Floo powder thing you do. We'll be out before your Inferi friends even twig that we're up to something."

"Sounds good." Tom glanced again at Lily's waist, and the Invisibility Cloak that she had stowed there. "Is that Demiguise hair?" he inquired curiously. "The cloaks I've made are nowhere near as good as yours."

Lily just chuckled. "Always the inventor, Tom. Sadly, my Cloak is one of a kind."

They came in high towards the prison, soaring and soaring until the tower was almost directly beneath them - and then, with an excited whoop, Lily sent the Thestral into a steep, swooping dive. Tom yelled as they fell, and clung onto Lily for dear life; she just laughed. His stomach felt as if it were about to leap out of his mouth - and then, with a clatter of hooves, the Thestral landed, and Tom leapt off its back gratefully. Immediately, he stumbled to the edge of the rocky hollow they had landed in, fell to his knees, and promptly retched into the North Sea.

"Was that necessary?" he managed to choke out, as sea-spray stung his face and ankle-deep water soaked quickly through his robes. Amused, Lily placed a firm hand on Tom's shoulder to stop him toppling forward into the swirling waters.

"Not even slightly. Come on," she said, helping him to his feet. As he rose, Tom noticed they had landed in the shadow of a jagged rise of volcanic rock, hidden from view of the prison proper. Both Lily and he were soaked up to the knees with seawater - Tom rather more so. "Time to shine."

Together, they clambered out of the hollow, up onto a rough - but mercifully dry - stone outcrop. Lily took a moment to dry herself with her wand - and then, smiling thinly, the shivering Tom - before they began to climb up the rocks towards the tower itself. The outcrop, facing outwards to the choppy waters of the North Sea, was worn smooth, and twice Tom nearly fell. "Be careful," Lily snapped the third time it happened, steadying Tom with her wand as he slipped on a sliver of seaweed, and his arms windmilled wildly as he tried to regain his balance. "It's a long fall."

Finally they reached the last upwards jut of rock, and peering over Tom saw it; the colossal tower, a stone mountain looming over a wind-blasted plateau of black rock. The entrance, a hundred feet away, was an impossibly-tiny slit in the rock guarded by two of Elizabeth's Inferi. Tom tensed as he saw them, and Lily's eyes widened; each was pale and rotting, yet brutally strong, and fiercely loyal to only one person - his sister. These two Inferi carried long spears - tipped with barbed steel blades fashioned in the shape of a snake's head - that were even taller than they were. Suddenly, Tom had severe doubts about Lily's plan.

"Forget the Cloak," he said urgently. "It won't work. They'll _smell_ you."

Lily crept forward another foot to gawp at the Inferi. "Really?" she asked dubiously. Tom nodded. "Gross. Okay," she continued with barely a moment's pause, "new plan." She twirled her wand, and a thick pair of chains - not unlike the pair Tom had been wearing only a few hours before - appeared in her hands. Sliding her wand back into her robes, Lily gave the hand-cuffs to Tom. "Put these on me."

Tom quickly grasped Lily's plan. He snapped the chains onto Lily's wrists as gently as he could, then stepped out onto the stony plateau. A moment later Lily followed, shuffling along in her chains, looking every bit the beaten captive. "Let's just hope your sister hasn't got around to telling these guys you're not on Team Voldemort anymore," she whispered as they walked towards the tower, "or you're going to come down with a sudden affliction of spear-through-the-chest."

"Be quiet, prisoner."

"Shut up."

As Tom and Lily neared the entranceway and began to climb up the steep stone steps towards the prison, the Inferi stiffened. In uneasy unison, they crossed those deadly spears of theirs over the doorway.

 _"What do you want_?" they hissed, pale dead fingers tightening on their spears. Tom's fingers twitched to his side - and then he remembered that his wand was gone. It hurt more than he would ever have thought. He had had that wand his entire life. With that wand, he had fought off the bullies at his orphanage. He had learnt magic with that wand, teasing, testing, inventing and discovering long into the night. He had murdered with that wand. Tom didn't feel quite whole without it; it was as if Lily had chopped off part of his arm.

" _I have a prisoner_ ," he hissed back at the Inferi, speaking in the Parseltongue that had always come naturally to him. It was his mother tongue. " _I want to place her with the others._ " They still hesitated, and Tom forced a scowl, and a dangerous gleam into his scarlet eyes. He felt sure Lily's 'no-bravado' rule would allow it. " _Step aside, or my sister will hear of this._ "

The Inferi's eyes were glazed and lifeless - but still, somehow, full of low cunning, and they exchanged an uncomfortably long glance now. _If they do know that I've left Elizabeth_ , Tom thought, eyeing their spears warily, _I'll have to be quick._ He glanced downwards, to the Inferi's ragged makeshift belts, and the steel daggers that gleamed there. He had no wand, but he could reach for those daggers, drive them up through the soft flesh beneath their throats before they had time to bring those monstrous spears around-

But it didn't come to that. " _Enter_ ," they hissed, and the spears parted. Heart thumping harder than he'd care to admit, Tom led Lily inside. The air was smoky and hot here, in the crowded warren of tunnels that snaked through the walls of Azkaban. "They're up here," he whispered, turning abruptly from a cramped stone tunnel into a gloomy guardsroom. There were more Inferi in here, at least ten of them; they were scattered over the floor, prone, pale and motionless. When Tom and Lily stepped inside, however, they stirred, and rose to their feet, and eyed them thoughtfully.

Tom did his best to ignore them. Taking Lily firmly in hand, he crossed the room towards the opposite doorway, a slender hole in the wall through which he could see only blackness. One of the Inferi was standing by the doorway; as Tom approached, it stared, something glinting dangerously in the depths of its cold black eyes, but it said nothing. Tom's skin crawled, and glancing over his shoulder, he could tell Lily felt the same.

But then they were past the Inferi, and in all the all-consuming blackness. Tom didn't have his wand, but he could still _feel_ the charms that pervaded this place; when he reached out his right hand, it was as simple as flicking on a Muggle light-switch. A thousand hot-blue lanterns flickered on and, beside him, Lily quickly muffled a gasp. They stood on a slender steel stairway which clung to the ancient stone walls. Below, the stairs descended for another twenty flights; above, they climbed another hundred. Tom could barely see the roof from here.

"They're not far," he whispered, taking Lily's arm and leading her up the nearest stairwell. "We don't have many prisoners here these days."

They climbed two more flights, and there they were; thirteen cells, all in a row. All captured at the battle at the Ministry. Harry Potter. Ginny Potter. Ron Weasley, who had lost a wife and a daughter to Tom. Fleur Delacour and her husband, Bill. Teddy Lupin and Victoire Weasley. George Weasley. Ernie Macmillan. Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, Angelina Johnson, Natalie McDonald. All were awake. Some sat at the very edge of their cells, chatting to their neighbours. Others lay in their beds, or sat reading, or just stared blankly into space. But, to a man, when Tom passed by with Lily Potter in chains behind him, their eyes found his.

Each reacted differently. Fleur Delacour, perched elegantly on the end of her bed, simply stared at Tom with haughty hatred. Her book fell from numb fingers to clatter to the floor. Bill Weasley shook his head when he saw Lily, and murmured 'no' over and over again. Macmillan, Finnigan and Thomas swore and cursed Tom's name. Ginny Potter glared daggers, though there were tears in her eyes when she saw her daughter in chains. Angelina Johnson turned away in horror, and Ron Weasley dived for Tom's throat when he saw his captive niece passing by. In the last cell, however, Harry Potter just stared at Tom, his expression implacable.

"Don't worry, Dad," Lily whispered urgently, slipping past Tom to clasp the bars of her father's cell. "We're here to rescue you."

Slowly, Harry Potter stood, his green eyes narrowed in confusion. His gaze slid from his daughter, to Tom, then back to Lily again. " _Rescue_ -"

" _Shhh_!" Tom hissed. He glanced pointedly over his shoulder and down, to the guardsroom where Elizabeth's Inferi were lurking. "We don't have long. Go keep watch, Lily."

"Tom-"

"Do it," he snapped. As Lily hastened off to the stairwell to watch for any approaching Inferi-creatures, Tom slid his hand across the steel bars of Potter's cell, and the metal melted away into the ground. Not six feet away, Potter stood stiffly, his eyes fixed on Tom, his expression unreadable. Tom could tell Potter was wondering - _why_? The man with the lightning scar took a step forward, and for a second, thinking Potter was going to strike him, Tom flinched. Instead, Potter just stepped past. He strode out of his cell to the steel railing and peered over. Two flights below, the distant sounds of _hissing_ and _spitting_ echoed upwards from the guardsroom.

"How will you get us out of here?" Potter asked, back turned to Tom.

"Lily has a plan." _And it involves getting out of here as fast as we can._ Tom hurried to the next cell over, where Ron Weasley stood behind the steel bars. Imprisonment had not agreed with Weasley. His red hair had largely gone to grey in the darkness, and it fell raggedly to his shoulders now, untrimmed and unwashed. Patchy stubble dashed the man's gaunt cheeks, and his plain-grey clothes hung loosely on his lanky frame. There were deep purple bags beneath the man's sunken bloodshot eyes. Tom slid his hand across Weasley's bars, then held his hands up in supplication as the steel wilted into the ground.

"Listen, Weasley-"

Weasley punched him. Tom staggered back, dazed, onto the steel walkway - and then the red-haired man was on him again, and frightened yells were ringing out, and Tom's mouth tasted of blood. Weasley drove another fist into Tom's stomach, and another, doubling him over, forcing Tom backwards and backwards until the black-haired man crashed into the steel railing. For a second, Tom kept going, and he flailed wildly, desperately, for something - _anything_ \- to stop him falling over the edge - and then Weasley's hands were at Tom's throat. As Tom clawed desperately at Weasley's choking grip, he could see it in the corner of his eye - three hundred feet of open air, and after that, the brutally-hard stone floor. Tom's upper body dangled over the steel railing.

"That's enough, Ron!" Potter shouted, as if from a great distance. His voice was almost drowned out by the pulsing of blood, _thump-thump-thump_ , in Tom's ears. Tom's world had been reduced to the cold, bony grip of Weasley's hands on his throat, and the red-haired man's manic snarl. Suddenly, hands seized around Weasley's shoulders, tugging him away, and his vice-like grip on Tom's throat was broken. Unbalanced, Tom nearly fell backwards, his mouth opening in an involuntary scream - then a soft, warm hand seized around his own, tugging him back onto solid ground.

"Hurry up and open the other cells," was all Lily said. "They're coming."

From below, Tom suddenly registered excited _hissing_ sounds, and the thump-thump of footsteps on steel. Whirling, he leaned over the railing and there they were; ten pale Inferi, dashing up the stairway towards Tom. " _Traitor_!" they cried in Parseltongue. Behind Tom, Potter had dragged Weasley to the ground, and still restrained him there, muttering calming words while the red-haired man fought and shouted.

"Now, Tom!" Lily yelled. "The cells!"

Tom dashed to the nearest cell. The prisoners had obviously heard the scuffle, and each had come to the front of their cell to see what was going on. They asked questions, and pointed fingers, and demanded explanations from Tom, but he had no time. He dashed along the line, parting the steel bars with a touch, and all the while the Inferi were getting closer. As he reached the last cell of the line and skidded to a halt, Fleur Delacour stepped forwards, hands on her hips. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Is this some sort of trick?"

The sound of the Inferi's footsteps on the steel stairway was like thunder. Their spears rattled furiously as they ran, and Tom could hear their hisses of anticipation, the soft wet _slurp_ as they tasted the air with their tongues. They were almost here. "I hope you're ready, Lily," he began, turning towards the stairwell, where Lily still kept watch - and then he saw her scratching feebly at her robes with chained hands.

"My _wand_ ," she said horrified. "I can't reach my wand! Get these off!"

Tom's face went pale. "I don't have the key."

He took one step towards Lily - and then the Inferius bulled her aside. She hit the steel railing with a scream, then slid to the floor. Slowly, _hissing_ happily, Elizabeth's creature stepped onto the walkway. Its cold dead eyes were focused on Tom, and there was a dark amusement in there that he suddenly recognised. There was more of his sister in these things than he'd realised, Tom thought, curiously calm, as the creature raised its spear to strike through Lily's skull. The spear slashed downwards - and Lily rolled aside with a scream of grinding steel as the spear shattered her handcuffs.

"Get behind me!" Tom shouted to the others, forcing Fleur Delacour and the other freed prisoners backwards along the walkway. Lily, too, was hastily retreating, ducking and rolling and diving to avoid the Inferius' furious, methodical spear-thrusts. Tom decided it was about time they got out of here. Turning, he clicked his fingers, and ten-foot tall crimson flames burst into life in the centre of the steel walkway.

"In!" he shouted over his shoulder, as more and more of the Inferi piled onto the walkway. The steel was creaking unsteadily beneath his feet. "Go!"

Tom couldn't risk another glance to see if Potter and the others were going; the Inferi were on him. For a moment, he stood back to back with Lily - and then she was lost in the madness.


	33. The Whispers

_The Whispers_

* * *

Tom could not say how he survived the next few moments. One moment, four of Elizabeth's Inferi-creatures were closing in, fingers reaching, spear-tips glinting; the next, his hands were dripping with rotten green-black blood, and he had a steel dagger clutched in his right, though Tom could not have said how he acquired it. His tattered black robes were ripped and torn in half a hundred places, and hot sticky sweat was streaming down Tom's brow into his eyes. This was no wizard duel, no graceful back and forth, no test of wit and speed and grace. This was a _brawl_ , and Tom had never been more terrified in his life.

He had won a moment's respite, his back pressed to the cold steel bars of one cell or another, but now the Inferi had surrounded him, and he had nowhere to go. They were stronger than he was, an impenetrable mass of pale dead muscle on all sides. He glanced frantically from side to side, searching for some way out, some glimpse of open walkway to flee into, but he found none. One of the Inferi thrust its spear towards Tom; only sheer reflex pulled his head back in time, and the spear snapped to its full extension an inch from Tom's nose. He threw his knife; it embedded itself within one of the creature's chests, but the Inferius didn't pause for a second. There was no way out.

Suddenly, a colossal _bang_ shook the air. One of the Inferi surrounding Tom fell to the ground, and Lily leapt through the gap, eyes wild. There were three blazing-crimson gashes on her face. Whirling, she felled one Inferius with a blinding-red bang, and then another, but four more swarmed forwards to take their place. Side by side, they were trapped. Snarling, Lily raised her wand for one last futile strike - and Tom grabbed her by the arm. With his other hand, he reached out to the steel bars against which he stood. The metal melted away, and Tom tugged Lily backwards into the cell. As they toppled to the stone ground, and the Inferi pressed forwards hungrily, Tom gestured wildly towards the cell's now-open doorway.

Two of the Inferi had already crossed the cell's threshold when the steel bars surged upwards. One took a three-inch-thick metal bar through the skull, and died instantly. The other creature was one step behind. The steel bar entered its pale thigh, punched through the soft dead flesh, emerged briefly, then continued upwards through the Inferius' shoulder. That one screamed, and thrashed violently on the cell floor. The rest of the Inferi pressed furiously against the bars, reaching with hands and teeth and spears. One snake's-head blade stabbed within an inch of Tom and Lily, and they hastily retreated to the back of the cell.

"Can you Apparate?" Tom asked between deep, heaving breaths.

Grimly, Lily shook her head. "I tried. I can't - not in here. It's like trying to swim through treacle." She lay beside Tom, head resting against the crumbling-stone wall, her eyes closed tightly. Her mouth was contorted in a pained grimace, but when she spoke, her voice was steady. "How about you conjure up another of your Floo-in-a-box things?"

Tom snapped his fingers, but it was no good. The cell's walls and ceiling pressed in too close, snuffing out the flames before they could even take form. "There's not enough room in here."

"Oh, goodie." With a groan of pain Lily opened her eyes and sat up against the stone wall. Her wand was clutched in her left hand. "Okay, new plan." Shakily, she climbed to her feet, with barely a glance towards the Inferi baying for blood not eight feet away. They had brought up a great metal saw, Tom noticed, and were beginning to slice through the nearest of the steel bars. Tom expected Lily to turn her wand on the Inferi, but instead she faced the rear wall, wand raised. "Get behind me," she warned.

Hurriedly, Tom got behind her. " _Reducto_!" she yelled.

The cell wall crumpled with an ear-shattering blast. Outside, a storm was howling. The skies were a churning grey-black maelstrom, spitting rain and hailstones and, further out to sea, jagged electric-blue forks of lightning. Tom and Lily hurried forwards to the edge; two hundred feet below, choppy grey waters broke themselves relentlessly upon brutal razor-sharp rocks. The roar was deafening. Lily glanced sidelong at Tom. Her shoulder-length hair was already drenched with rain-water; now a deep auburn-brown colour, it clung limply to her pale skin. "You think she'll hear me?" Lily yelled.

Tom shrugged. "Maybe."

"Better be sure. You might want to cover your ears." Lily raised her wand to her throat. " _Sonorus_ ," she murmured.

As Tom covered his ears - and behind him, the Inferi's assault on the cell's steel bars intensified to a furious frenzy - Lily raised two fingers to her lips and whistled. It was a deafening, screeching sound, amplified a thousand times over, and it sent shivers down Tom's spine. Lily took a step back from the edge, pointed her wand at her throat, and murmured " _Quietus_." Five unimaginably-long seconds passed - and then a shrill, tearing call answered Lily's, muffled by the winds and rain.

"Good girl," Lily murmured, as she and Tom stepped to the edge. She turned to him. "Together?"

Tom nodded. His hands lay by his side, pale and cold, and for a second he thought Lily would take his hand in her own. Instead, she grabbed him forcefully by the arm. Together, they leapt into the storm. They were falling, tumbling, plummeting out of control through the rain towards the jagged rocks below, until suddenly a shadow swept into view, great batlike wings flapping frantically against the wind and rain. And suddenly Tom and Lily weren't falling anymore, but _climbing_ , and there was hard black muscle beneath his legs.

"Good girl!" Lily yelled again, stroking the Thestral's mane. "Back home now!"

Tom slid his arms around her waist, and they soared away into the roiling late-evening sky.

* * *

The sun had long fallen below the horizon by the time the towers of Hogwarts came into view. Tom and Lily swept down from a purple-black sky, skimming over the lake and the castle greenhouses before cantering to a halt on the castle's front steps. No sooner had the Thestral trotted to a halt than Tom leapt off its back gratefully, stomach churning. He stumbled, almost fell, and went to one knee in the dirt before sinking to a seat on the gently-sloping front steps. Lily was more graceful in her dismount. She nimbly slid off the Thestral's back, landing lightly on her feet. With a wry smile she helped Tom to his feet, then turned back to her faithful Thestral.

"Good girl," she said, running a hand down the beast's sleek mane. "Go see Hagrid now, he'll give you some nice juicy raw meat."

The Thestral beat its wings, throwing up great swathes of dust, cried its shrill call and disappeared into the night sky. While Lily watched it go, flapping its way towards the Forbidden Forest and the distant, tiny glow of Hagrid's hut in the darkness, Tom turned away towards the castle's front doors. It was then that he noticed the cat. Slender, a smoky-black colour except for a white-tipped tail, it was curled up in a ball at the top of the stone steps. Its gleaming yellow-lamp eyes seemed oddly intelligent, and when the cat noticed Tom staring, it _hissed_ angrily. Tom was about to remark on this to Lily, but when he next looked, the cat had disappeared. Shaking his head, he put it from his mind.

"Let's get inside," Lily said, turning away from the night towards Tom. "I'm frozen." As she started up the front steps towards the castle doors, she glanced over her shoulder towards him. "You did - er - send my parents and the others here, right?"

"I did." Tom nodded towards the closed front doors, his expression neutral. "I suppose they'll be in there."

Lily's eyes lit up - at the thought of the impending reunion with her loving family, no doubt. "Come on, then."

Tom had to hurry to keep up with her as they climbed the steps. The remnants of Lily's shattered hand-cuffs, still clinging to her wrists, _clinked_ softly as they walked. A cold breeze licked in from the darkened grounds to snap at Tom's tattered-black robes, and he found himself shivering. Lily swept her wand towards the towering front doors and they creaked open. Warm orange light streamed suddenly out onto the darkened front steps. Hot, dry air buffeted Tom's face. Inside, the Entrance Hall was empty, though Tom could hear sounds of life echoing from further within the castle. Without pause Lily strode inside, Tom half a step behind by her side. The great front doors swung shut behind them, the heavy wooden bars sliding across with a series of dull _clunks._

For some reason, it surprised Tom when Lily made a beeline for the dungeons. _What did you expect? Thanks? You're a monster. A freak. No Unbreakable Vow will change that._ He followed Lily in sullen silence, allowing her to lead him down and down and down into his familiar cesspit of a cell. As Lily snapped the chains back onto his bruised, rubbed-raw wrists, Tom winced. "Sorry," she murmured. "If you want, I can send Madam Pomfrey down-"

"I'm fine," Tom said through gritted teeth.

"OK." Lily took more care with his ankle-manacles. When they clicked together, and Tom was once more shackled helplessly to the wall, she stepped away. "You - you were useful today, Tom," she said, pausing in the doorway, little more than a shadow in the flickering candle-light.

Tom forced a bitter smile. "I live to serve."

"Good. I'll - I'll see you tomorrow. I'll have someone bring you some food, you look starving."

With that she left him, striding away out of sight, no doubt off to join her family. As Tom's cell door swung shut, and the meagre light fled his cell, all he could hear were Lily's fading footsteps, and the distant sounds of laughter and celebration, and the quiet jingling of his shifting chains. _Tom_ , whispered a sudden, familiar female voice, so seemingly close that goosebumps rose on the back of Tom's neck. He glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing there but mildew-stained stone wall. _Why are you doing this? Come back to me._

Tom did his best to ignore it.

* * *

When morning came, two sullen seventh-year students Tom didn't recognise brought him a meagre breakfast. They had opened his door a slender fraction, shoved the plate inside and fled before Tom could so much as rattle his hand-cuffs. Chained to the wall as he was, all Tom could do was stare at the plate of mushed beans, listen to the sounds of his rumbling stomach, and stew in his own rising anger. This was Lily's kindness? Mushed beans?

"How am I supposed to eat this?" he yelled as the cell door swung closed. "Idiots."

He stared at the plate of mushed beans for a long while, trying to master the mysteries of wandless magic; but the beans were no nearer him an hour later, when his cell-door next opened. Tom expected Lily, perhaps in his wildest imagination bearing a plate laden with bacon and eggs; he scowled, then, when he recognised his visitor. He shared her flame-red hair, did Hugo Weasley, but there, to Tom, the similarities ended. Hugo had a pinched little rat's face which befitted him well, in Tom's opinion.

"What are you doing here?" Tom demanded as Hugo stepped forward, nose crinkled in distaste, into the dank cell. "I thought you were still hiding behind the International Confederation of Wizards' skirts."

"Don't talk to me like that." Hugo flicked his wand lazily towards Tom's face. He bit back a yell of pain as a white-hot knife slashed across his cheek, raising blood. Suddenly, his long-simmering anger bubbled over. Oh, how he had _longed_ for an encounter with Hugo back when he and Elizabeth had been slicing a bloody path through the wizarding world. Sadly, the chance had never materialised.

"How long have you waited for an opportunity like this, Hugo?" he asked coldly, scarlet eyes gleaming like icy sapphires. "You always hated me. You and James...any time I went anywhere _near_ Lily, I could see it. You two would put your foul little heads together, and the next day James would try to curse me in the corridors, or you'd put Bubotuber pus in my pumpkin juice. I was always too smart for you, though. Remember when I threw my pumpkin juice all over you, and you spent the next week oozing stinking yellow pus? I bet you lay in bed at night in your little Gryffindor pyjamas _dreaming_ of a chance like this."

Tom rattled his chains, Hugo leapt back fearfully, and he laughed. "I always hated you," Tom snarled. "Elizabeth killed the wrong Weasley."

Tom had always had a way with words. Hugo's face flushed furiously. In the half-darkness, Tom saw the young man's hand twitch towards his wand, and Tom tensed - but when Hugo raised his wand, Tom's chains fell away from the wall. Unbalanced, Tom fell to his knees, and a fresh stab of pain shot through him. "You're wanted up in the Great Hall," Hugo muttered, turning away. He swiped his wand over his shoulder, and Tom was yanked to his feet by a great invisible hand. "Come on."

* * *

When Hugo marched Tom in, the Great Hall fell silent. Longbottom sat in the Headmaster's tall-backed golden chair, but he was alone at the teacher's table. The rest were taking lessons, Tom supposed, taking in the small crowd that had gathered here. Three of the four long tables that lined the hall were empty; at the far end of the Gryffindor table, however, was a small cluster of men and women. All the freed captives were there, as was Luna Lovegood; more surprising, though, was the presence of Albus Potter, Percy Weasley, and a man Tom recognised as the proprietor of Flourish & Blotts; and standing before the crowd, brilliant-blonde-haired, radiant in midnight-blue robes, was the International Confederation of Wizards envoy Gabrielle Delacour.

"He's here," Hugo called unnecessarily, prodding Tom in the back with the tip of his wand. Tom twitched at the unpleasant electric jolt, but said nothing. Ankles chained together, he shuffled the length of the hall. "Madam Delacour," he said politely, taking a seat with some difficulty on the deserted Slytherin bench. Opposite him were the gathered crowd; Harry Potter with his wife and children; Ron Weasley, glaring hatefully at Tom, a vein pulsing in his forehead; the other Weasleys, Luna Lovegood, Fleur Delacour. All looked considerably cleaner and better-groomed than they had last night. "What can I do for you?"

Gabrielle Delacour eyed him for a moment, face an expressionless mask; then she turned back to the crowd at the Gryffindor table. "To summarise," she said, with barely a trace of an accent. "The Confederation is ready. I have two hundred wands here, though I hardly think they will all be necessary. Thanks to your good work, we already have one of them in captivity. The other will be no match for us when we attack."

Tom straightened abruptly, chains rattling. "The other being my sister?"

"No one said you could speak," Ron Weasley said harshly.

"And let's get one thing straight," Tom continued, as if he had not heard, "I wasn't _captured_. I came here to help stop my sister."

"Go die in a hole, Riddle," Weasley snapped.

Something suddenly flared into life within Tom's chest. It was a deep, searing, _burning_ feeling, and Tom suddenly lurched to his feet as if drawn by a great invisible hand. With him came half the Great Hall, wands in hand, but all Tom did was glance at Lily. His eyes were pleading, and mercifully he found quick comprehension there. "Don't go die in a hole," she said quickly, and the burning feeling subsided. Tom sank gratefully back to the bench, and Lily turned to her uncle. "He swore an Unbreakable Vow to do whatever we say," she explained.

"Really?" Weasley asked. "Well, in that case, Riddle, go f-"

"Enough," Harry Potter interrupted quietly. "Ron, sit down." As Weasley returned to the bench, face flushed furiously, Potter turned his green eyes on Tom. "Tom, if you don't think you're a prisoner, you're deluded. Gabrielle didn't send for you. I did. We're attacking the Ministry today. We need to know if there'll be any surprises."

Tom shook his head stubbornly. "She's my sister. I should be the one to do it."

"No one cares what you think," snapped Ginny Weasley.

"We should just kill him and be done with it," urged Teddy Lupin. "He murdered Hermione. Rose and James too."

A murmur of assent rolled around the Great Hall at that. Tom tried to smile coldly, and remind them that he didn't actually kill Rose or Hermione Granger; but when he tried, the burning sensation crept painfully back into his chest. _I guess that counts as bravado_ , he thought ruefully. "If you kill me," he said pointedly, "how will you ever find out about the surprises?"

"Tell us," urged Longbottom, Gabrielle Delacour and Potter simultaneously.

"I'll tell you," Tom said, as the burning sensation flickered back into life in his chest, "but I want to come. Oh, and I want some breakfast."

* * *

Gabrielle Delacour and her two hundred wands had lead the attack. Tom had been in tow, to guide them through the Ministry and point out any potential dangers his sister might have cooked up. He'd already warned them about Inferi, told them about the noxious fumes that choked the air in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the brain-frying floorboard on Level Two, the lift with the fake floor - a two hundred foot drop below - and the Chimaera, but who knew what else Elizabeth might have done in his absence? So he had gone, and to keep a tight leash on Tom, Hugo Weasley and Lily Potter had gone with him. Mercifully - and after much heated debate - his chains had been removed. They had not deigned to give him a wand, however.

Together, the two-hundred-and-four had Apparated to the Ministry, to be promptly followed by Harry Potter and those others that would be joining the attack. As they were about to leave the Great Hall Tom had turned to Lily, speaking in a confiding whisper that Hugo could not hear. "If we do find Elizabeth today," he had asked, "what happens to me?"

Lily had blinked uncertainly. "You - you have a trial for your crimes."

"And get found guilty?"

Her expression had hardened, her mouth a thin cold line. "What do you think, Tom?"

With that they had Apparated to the Ministry's Atrium. It had been deserted. The gold-framed fire-places that lined the walls had been choked with soot and dust. The once-magnificent marble fountain had slowed to a stagnant trickle. The only sounds had been the squeaking of the soldiers' boots on the stone floor. Elizabeth was nowhere in sight. Tom had wondered aloud if she might have been with them even now, invisible, but Delacour had rubbished the notion. "We've taken precautions against that sort of thing, Riddle. We won't be fooled. We are not your Ministry."

Lily had stiffened rather amusingly at that, but she said nothing. Soon, after her soldiers had secured the Atrium and scouted the abandoned upper levels, Delacour had admitted defeat and consulted Tom as to where his sister might be. Tom had suggested the Department of Mysteries. His sister had spent days down in that strange department's depths. Elizabeth would spend long hours strolling the Hall of Prophecies, or studying the colossal many-tendrilled brains, or staring into the depths of the fluttering veil.

Delacour had agreed, and so they had descended through the Ministry. They didn't encounter any new traps; the only excitement was a colossal roar that had everyone, Tom included, jumping a foot into the air. "They've found the Chimaera," Tom had remarked as two soldiers hurriedly retreated out of a darkened storeroom. "Let's hope it's still in its cage."

Alas, it was, and the long walk down to the Department of Mysteries was punctuated with no more excitement. It had been eerily quiet. It still was. "She isn't here," Delacour finally admitted after searching the Department of Mysteries thrice over and turning up nothing more than one tired old Unspeakable. Now, they stood in a large circular room, gloomy, ringed by stone benches on all sides. In the centre of the room was an ancient stone arch, and hanging beneath it was a tattered, ever-so-slightly-fluttering black veil. "Where did she go, Unspeakable?"

Croaker, an elderly man - bespectacled, with only a tuft of white hair remaining to him - could only shrug. Cursing, Delacour turned away from the old man towards Tom. "Where is she, Riddle?"

Tom patted his robes ineffectually, as if he might be hiding Elizabeth in his pockets. "I don't know, Delacour," he said dryly. "Off enacting some evil plan, no doubt."

Delacour strode down the steps towards the tattered veil, peering intently at it as if his sister might be hiding on the other side. The Unbreakable Vow urging him to be helpful, Tom descended the steps towards her. Hugo, his unwanted shadow, followed, while Lily moved away to speak to the old Unspeakable Croaker. "She might be at one of our old hide-outs," Tom said, stepping to Delacour's side as she stared into the veil. He could hear the voices whispering. "Lily knows where one is. I can show you the other one."

"Very well, Riddle," Delacour sighed. The blonde-haired woman turned sharply away, face dripping with disappointment. "Let's get out of here."

Delacour and her soldiers left, and suddenly it was only Tom, Hugo, Lily and Croaker left in the ancient amphitheatre. Lily and Croaker sat at the stop of the steps, conversing quietly. Tom made to rejoin them, but Hugo suddenly grabbed his arm forcefully, jerking Tom towards the far side of the archway. They were hidden from view of Lily, and Hugo leaned in close now. "You hear them?" he hissed, jerking his head towards the black veil. "You hear my sister? My mother?"

"No," Tom lied. He tried to pull away, but he was weakened and bone-weary from his imprisonment, and Hugo tugged him closer.

"This Unbreakable Vow thing is interesting, huh?" Hugo whispered maliciously in Tom's ear. "What's to stop me ordering you to step through that veil?"

"Lily."

"We'll see," said Hugo - but he released his grip on Tom. "We going, Lily?" he called, peering round the archway towards his red-haired cousin.

"Sure," she said. "Meet you back at Hogwarts?"

Hugo nodded, and his fingernails tightened painfully on Tom's arm. They disappeared into thin air with a loud _pop_.


	34. Demented

_Demented_

* * *

Tom had a strange dream that night. He was padding through a forest on four furry paws. Moonlight streamed eerily through the tall pine-trees, and ominous howls pierced the night, but still he padded on. He was looking for something - but what? Tom didn't know. It went on like this for some time, scanning the dirt-and-mud-and-grass ground with gleaming yellow-lamp eyes for - _something._ There was a strange burning sensation in his chest, a dull pounding as he walked. This went on for some time.

Suddenly, his fore-paw stepped upon something hard and small. Tom winced in pain, but then his eyes were drawn to the stone he had trodden on; it was small, black, with a curious white mark upon it, like a triangle with a line through it. Tom had no idea what it was, but for some reason, he picked up the stone in his little black furry paws and turned it over, once, twice, thrice. When he had turned the stone over for the third time, he allowed it to fall to the grass and looked around expectantly.

When he turned, the dark man was there. Tom felt ecstasy erupt in his stomach then, a leaping, dancing joy that he felt quite sure did not belong to him. Suddenly, the burning sensation in his chest was gone. _Finally, finally!_ a woman laughed joyously. _It's gone! He's here!_ He was a tall man, frighteningly pale, his nose a mere slit in his stretched-taut skin. His eyes were scarlet slits, yes, but they were _cold_ , colder by far than Tom's or even his sister's had ever been. They glared down at the four-legged cat which crouched in supplication before him.

" _Rise_ ," he hissed coldly. " _Get up from there. You're embarrassing yourself."_

Tom felt himself eagerly nodding, and then suddenly he wasn't a cat with a stubby white-tipped tail any more, but a _woman_ , tall, pale-skinned, with piercing scarlet eyes. Hurriedly, devotedly, Tom - or was it the woman? - curtseyed before the dark man.

 _"Master!"_ he exclaimed joyfully. " _I did it! You're back!"_

The dark man's crimson eyes found Tom's, and those cold eyes instantly quelled all of Tom's joy. Cowed, he fell to his knees at the dark man's feet. " _Am I?"_ the dark man enquired. His scarlet slits slid downwards, past the kneeling Tom, to the small black stone lying, forgotten, in the grass. " _What is this stone?"_

 _"The Resurrection Stone, Master!"_ Tom said, though he had no idea what the Resurrection Stone was. " _One of the Deathly Hallows!"_

Curious, the dark man rolled the black stone between finger and thumb. His scarlet eyes studied the scratched-white markings upon the stone for a long while - and then he crushed it in his fist. " _Am I back_?" the dark man repeated, allowing the black-stone dust to scatter to the winds. " _No, I am not. This is not enough, you fool._ "

Tom's heart forgot to beat. " _Master_?"

" _Give me your wand_ ," the dark man hissed. Cringing, Tom did so, and the dark man slashed the wand - a cruel stick of black walnut, strangely familiar - towards Tom. " _Avada Kedavra_!"

Tom expected the blinding flash of green light, and the onrushing sound of death - but when it didn't come, he wept.

" _Master, what have I done wrong?"_ he sobbed, clutching at the dark man's knees as he tossed the walnut wand aside, disgusted.

" _Get away from me_!" the dark man hissed, slapping Tom away with a large, pale spiderlike hand. " _You are useless - you - you..."_

But the dark man was fading, and fading, like breath on a mirror, and then he was gone, and Tom was sobbing alone in the woods.

* * *

"No more bloody _day-trips_ ," Tom hissed, as his cell door creaked open and an all-too familiar shadow slipped inside. "No more _errands_ , Lily. Just let me out of here so I can kill my bloody sister."

"Someone's in a bad mood today," Lily remarked dryly. She crossed the claustrophobic cell in three quick steps, then began to work at the fastenings of Tom's chains with soothing, nimble hands. "I thought you enjoyed our little trips, Tom." Her fingernails scratched the scorched-raw skin of Tom's wrists, and he yelled in pain. "Sorry," she said quickly, letting the heavy chains _clank_ to the floor. "I-"

As soon as he was free, Tom wrapped his pale hands around her slender throat. As Lily screamed, quickly stifled, Tom pulled her close, so close he could hear her panicked breathing, and the thumping of her heart as their chests pressed together, and see the scarlet gleam reflected in her bright-brown eyes.

"I don't _want_ Dumbledore's bloody redemption," he snarled, as a searing, burning feeling burst into life within his chest. _The Vow._ "I don't _want_ you. Funnily enough, I don't want a bloody trial and execution either." Tom tightened his grip on her throat, squeezing and squeezing until a flush crept into those pale cheeks. "All I want, Lily, is to kill my bloody sister so I can die in peace. Is that too much to ask?"

"Tom, let me go." Lily's voice was muffled, but even, and the burning within Tom's chest rose to an agonised scream.

"Delacour won't find my sister," he said in an icy almost-whisper. "None of you will. She's too clever for you. Only I have even the _slightest_ chance of finding her. So I do you the _bloody courtesy_ of offering to help you take down my sister, and what do you do? _Lock me up_!"

"Help us, then," Lily choked out.

"I _can't_!" he yelled in a voice so demented it surprised even him. "What am I supposed to do, chained up in a bloody cell all day and night?"

As the fire suddenly surged through every vein and artery in his body, Tom screamed and released Lily. Instantly, she scrabbled away out of his reach to the opposite wall, half-panting, half-sobbing. Even in the half-light of the cell, as he writhed and yelled, Tom could see the bright-red marks on her pale skin where he had throttled her.

"You're to come with me," she said in a small, cold voice. Mercifully, the flames inside Tom's chest were retreating. "We're to search the tower Dad found you in for your sister."

Every muscle in his body screaming disobedience, Tom pulled himself to a seated position, head resting against the cool-stone wall. "I told Delacour where the towers were. She took her men to search them."

"She's still searching the first one. The one on the moor."

Tom's head was pounding, but this didn't add up to him. Delacour had two hundred troops at her disposal, and there were hundreds more besides in the castle, Harry Potter and his ilk. Lily knew where the tower was. Why should she need him? "Just you and me?" he rasped hoarsely. "Why?"

The cell's heavy wood-and-steel door was slightly ajar; in the warm-orange light that streamed in, Tom saw a flicker of discomfort in Lily's eyes. "Let's just say tensions are high up there," she admitted. "Dad thinks it'd be a good idea to get you out of the castle for a while." As she spoke, she massaged her raw throat with slender fingers. "A few people tried to get into your cell last night. They were trying to - well..."

"Who?"

Lily's eyes found Tom's. "You really want to know?"

"I suppose it could have been any of them," he murmured bitterly. "Anyone except for your saintly bloody father."

There was a long silence then. Lily gazed at Tom with a strange mixture of revulsion, fear and - something else that might have been hurt - and Tom stared back coldly. Finally, Lily eased herself to her feet, one hand still at her bruised throat. "We're going now," she said.

"No."

"It's an order," said Lily.

As the burning feeling burst back into life in his chest, Tom met Lily's eyes. "I suppose I'll die, then. Have you ever seen the Unbreakable Vow kill someone, Lily? It's excruciatingly painful." Tom forced a sickening, monstrous grin. "Want to know how I know? Elizabeth and I found a farmer up in the plains of Moldova. Nice place, really idyllic. A wife, a son, a daughter, all blonde-haired, blue-eyed...anyway, Elizabeth thought it would be fun to make the farmer swear an Unbreakable Vow to murder his family. I agreed. The farmer swore the vow at wandpoint, but when it came down to it, he didn't have the guts to do the deed. The fire ate him from the inside out while his family watched." Tom laughed harshly. "Afterwards, we killed them anyway."

 _How's that for bravado, Lily_? The red-haired girl shook her head slowly, tears budding in her pale-brown eyes. "You really want to die now, Tom?" she asked softly. "Is this how you want it to end?"

Tom shrugged, though the fire was searing through him. "Seems as good a way as any. It's almost...poetic. All you have to do is step out that door, Lily. I'm sure you'll hear the screams."

Lily took a long, cold glance towards the slightly-ajar cell door. Her left foot seemed to twitch - but then a tear splashed to the floor, and she turned back to Tom, expression coldly furious. "It's not an order," she said, and the pain fled from Tom's chest once more. "You're not getting away with everything you've done that easily. Please, Tom. Come with me."

For some reason, Tom nodded.

* * *

They left the grounds of Hogwarts in silence. Tom walked in front, Lily two steps behind, her left hand buried in the depths of her robes. Her fingers were clasped tightly, Tom knew, around the hilt of her wand. As they walked, Tom could feel the eyes on them; on him, the tall, frighteningly-pale man, ragged and filthy, and on Lily, the short, slender red-haired woman with mottled-purple bruises all around her throat. He could hear the whispers. Luna Lovegood watched them pass, pale protuberant eyes blinking slowly; Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas and Angelina Johnson flashed Tom dark looks as he passed; Ron and Hugo Weasley, sitting together on the castle's front steps, leapt to their feet when they saw Lily's throat.

Ron Weasley stepped forward, arms raised to block Tom's path. "Lily..."

Silently, she shook her head. For a moment Tom thought the two red-haired freckled men would challenge her, but then Weasley stepped aside. As Tom and Lily walked on, Weasley sat next to his son on the castle's steps, heads bowed together, whispering urgently. Soon, they were out of sight, and Tom and Lily were on the narrow, winding mud-track that led through the pine forest to the castle gates. The trees grew thick here, and the shadows fell long. Glancing from side to side into the gloomy half-darkness of the forest, Tom thought more than once that he glimpsed a pair of curious yellow eyes, and heard the _pitter-patter_ of tiny feet. He had seen nothing more, however, by the time the gates came into view.

Tall iron gates flanked by winged-boar statues, they parted with a _squeal_ of rusted hinges as Lily approached. Tom stepped over the threshold first, and took a deep breath; yes, they were free of the castle's protective enchantments, he could tell. Her left hand still firmly clasping her wand, Lily stepped to Tom's side and grabbed his arm. For a second, as she turned on the spot and Tom was whisked into the squeezing rubber tube of Apparition, he thought of throwing her off. They would be separated, and Tom would be free. He didn't fancy the idea of being Splinched, however, so Tom resisted the impulse. The vice-like grip of Apparition grew tighter and tighter, until Tom thought he would never breathe again-

And then his feet landed on cold black stone, and a great numbing cold fell over Tom like a blanket. The island was swaddled in a thick smoky-grey fog, reducing the jutting, flowing volcanic-black stone Tom knew was all around to mere shadows. The only sound to be heard was the sea-water gently lapping against the rocks; otherwise, the island was deathly silent. No gulls cried their shrill calls, no crabs skittered through the rocks and pools in search of plunder, no rats scraped and scrabbled underfoot.

"Can you feel that?" Lily whispered suddenly.

"It's the tower," Tom said. To the north, even through the fog, it rose, a great ghostly-black _something_ in the sky. He could feel it. "It's calling me home."

"No," said Lily. Tom glanced sidelong at her, and was surprised to see that her breath was misting before her, freezing in the air, and her teeth were chattering. On a strange impulse he touched her hand, and her flesh was bone-chilling cold. "It's - it's something else. It's _cold_. Can you feel it?"

Suddenly, Tom could. The wind had an icy bite to it, howling and snapping across the rocks, but this cold was deeper than that. It penetrated Tom, reaching deep inside with grasping, raking tendrils, digging its cold claws into anything that was happy or hopeful or warm. Uncertain, Tom's eyes met Lily's - and then he saw it. He stiffened, reaching for a wand that wasn't there, as he glimpsed - _something_ \- in the fog behind Lily. The briefest of glimpses, and then it was gone; a fluttering black cloak, half-invisible in the fog.

Had he just imagined it? Or could this be his sister's work? She could certainly fly - had she finally come for Tom? Was this - this _cold_ \- some power of hers that she had concealed from Tom? God knows she had hidden enough.

"This fog isn't natural," Lily murmured, in a voice barely above a whisper. "Let's search your tower so we can get out of here."

Wand in hand, she stalked off into the fog. Tom hurried after her, picking a path through the knee-high maze of jagged stone towards the tower as carefully as he dared. His heart was suddenly hammering, and with a horrified jolt Tom realised that the island was no longer silent. It came through the fog, a hoarse, rattling breathing, a sound that stank of death. In the murk, it seemed to come from all sides. As he and Lily hurried through the fog towards the tower, he glanced frantically around, and saw them; black, shapeless - _things_ \- in the fog, drawing closer and closer. Tom could _feel_ them, drawing all the warmth from his soul. He was shivering, he realised suddenly.

"What are these things?" Tom asked, fighting to keep his voice calm as, all around, the tattered-black creatures drifted closer.

"You've never met them?" As Lily, crouching in the shadow of a fifty-foot tall rise of stone, turned to Tom, she sounded surprised. "Strange, I'd have thought they were right up your alley."

" _Who_?"

Lily just laughed - but it was a cold, humourless noise. Stepping forwards, she slid her wand from beneath her robes and thrust it towards the fog. The creatures were beginning to take form through the murky mist, inhumanly tall, swaddled in wispy-black cloaks, their clammy hands dead and rotting. " _Expecto Patronum_!" she yelled.

Nothing happened. Lily's eyes widened in panic and fear. " _Expecto Patronum_!" she screamed again, her voice high-pitched and tremulous. There was a thin spurt of a strange silvery-white substance from the end of Lily's wand - but it froze and died in the icy air, and Lily sank to her knees. "I _can't_ ," she exclaimed, glancing desperately at Tom. "This cold - your tower - it _does_ things to you, it makes you feel like you'll never be happy again..." Suddenly, she tossed her wand to Tom. Surprised, he barely caught it. "You try. Expecto Patronum. Think of a happy memory."

"Happy memories?" As the rattling, sucking breaths of the creatures in black cloaks suddenly intensified to hoarse screams, Tom tossed the wand back to Lily. "Try someone else, 'Lil."

A creature swooped down from the fog. Tom caught the briefest glimpse of dead, clawed hands, and a gaping grey hole in a rotting face - and then Lily had shoved him aside, and they were running, and a thousand screams were ringing in Tom's ears.

Images flashed before his eyes as they fled, and the creatures swooped and dived all around; himself, chained to a hard-backed wooden chair while accusing faces stared down at him. He was in the orphanage courtyard in Hogsmeade, face down in the gravel, whimpering in pain while the other children kicked at him over and over and over again. He was at Hogwarts, suffering through James Potter's relentless mockery while Hugo sniggered, Rose turned away, preferring not to see, and Lily fled to seek help that would never come. He was in a dark corner of Knockturn Alley while men in skull-masks closed in on all sides. He was in a deserted classroom at Hogwarts, caked with dust and blood, watching Lily twitch and scream on the ground, wondering what on earth he had done. He was-

"Tom?" A familiar female voice cut through the nightmare. " _Tom_?"

Tom opened his eyes, though he had not known they were closed. Looking around frantically, he realised he had fallen. His head rested in a stagnant half-frozen puddle, and all around was worn-smooth black stone. The sky was black too, and the shadow-creatures were swarming like sparrows. One came now, screaming down towards Tom, reaching out with its clammy-grey hands, and Tom tried to yell a warning - but then there was a sudden, blinding white light, and the pounding of hooves, and then Lily's face was swimming into view before Tom, and the shadow was fleeing into the black.

Behind Lily the tower - _his_ tower, flowing upwards like a melted candle - was infested with the creatures. They swarmed so thickly around the volcanic-black stone that the walls seemed to pulse and move beneath their weight.

"Tom?" Lily was yelling now, shaking him violently. "Elizabeth's not here, we have to go, we have to get away, but you have to _get up_ , Tom!"

There was a cold, gnawing pain in Tom's chest. He felt _empty_ , and high cold laughter was still ringing in his ears. Another creature swooped near, rotted jaws gaping, but a huge silvery-white creature chased it away, and for a moment Tom felt almost warm. Weakly, he scrabbled to his feet. As Lily wrapped an arm around his waist and turned, Tom took one last look at the abandoned, infested tower he had once called home.

Then, they were gone.

* * *

"There they are," Tom remarked. "And don't they look happy." Lily followed his gaze across the grounds of Hogwarts, past the muddy track and the greenhouses and the Quidditch pitch to the castle proper. There, crowded on the front steps, were her father, her uncle and dozens more. Even at this distance, Tom could tell that they were watching he and Lily. Waiting. Almost involuntarily, Tom's eyes slid to Lily's neck, and the bruises that were rising there. "They'll kill me for that," he told her flatly, pointing at her bruises. Tom knew a lynch mob when he saw one.

"You tried to kill me."

"Trust me, Lily, if I'd ever wanted to kill you I would have." Tom's eyes flitted back to the castle's front steps, where Potter and Weasley and the others were descending hurriedly. They spilled out onto the lawn, making a beeline for Tom and Lily across the grass. "You were always the smart one in your family. You know that killing me now will be utterly pointless. You know that I'm the only one who can find Elizabeth." Lily's eyes were fixed on her father and uncle rushing across the lawn towards them. Her expression was inscrutable, her eyes calculating. "You know you have to let me go."

"I could come with you."

"No," Tom said simply. He placed a hand on Lily's shoulder, taking care to avoid the bruised areas of her neck. "Lily-"

"I'm going to ask you two questions," she interrupted suddenly, throwing off Tom's hand to turn and meet his eyes. "You remember your Unbreakable Vow? I order you to tell the truth." There was a tremor in her voice as she continued. "What did you do with James?"

"I buried him beneath a holly bush," said Tom. "Under the sun."

"Where?"

"Is that your second question?"

"Answer the _damn_ question," she snapped. "Or I stick a Body-Bind Curse on you and give you to my Dad."

"Next to the tower where I found Elizabeth," Tom said. "It's the tallest bush under the west side."

"Good." Lily took a deep breath, as if that would dispel the tears suddenly welling in her bright-brown eyes. "Good. Next question, then. Why did you come back?"

"I thought the wizarding world might still have a place for me," Tom said. He glanced to his left, where Potter and Weasley were sprinting now, wands raised, five hundred feet away. "Obviously, I was wrong."

Lily stared at Tom for a long while, a curious expression upon her face. "You were," she said finally. She glanced to her right, at her onrushing father. "I've got no idea why I'm even considering doing this."

"Neither do I."

She smiled at that. "Okay then, Tom. Go kill your sister. For some reason, I actually think you'll do it." Lily held out a hand to Tom, and he took it. It was soft, and warm. "Good luck." Behind her, Potter was closing in. Tom turned to run - then Lily grabbed his arm. "You remember your Vow?"

"How could I forget it?"

"Good." Her voice softened, and for a moment Tom saw the girl he had met in a darkened corner of the Leaky Cauldron so many years ago. "Well then, Tom, I order you not to die."

Tom smiled thinly. "I'll try."

He turned and ran.


	35. Shadows of the Dark Lord

Somehow, Tom had known he would find Elizabeth here. In a great, sunken stone pit in the centre of the dimly-lit room was an ancient, crumbling stone archway. Rows and rows of stone benches cascaded down towards the pit on all sides. Beneath the archway hung a tattered-black curtain, fluttering softly in a non-existent wind. The air was still, and cold, and silent in the cavernous chamber; the only sounds were the softest, faintest whispers from beyond the veil. Elizabeth stood before the black curtain, staring into its depths. She wore wispy, flowing black robes and her hair fell carelessly, ragged and tangled, down her back. She was barefoot.

Far above, on the uppermost ring of benches, Tom watched her for a long while. She didn't seem to move, or blink, or even breathe; his sister just stood there, back turned to Tom, staring at whatever it was she saw beyond the veil, or searching for something she could not find. There were tears in her eyes. Tom was hidden beneath the folds of Lily's Invisibility Cloak, hastily handed to him as he fled. Potter and Weasley had been closing in, along with half a dozen others. Tom had known he would never make it on foot, so he had snapped his fingers, conjuring up a portable Floo-fire. As he dived inside, Potter's hands had snatched agonisingly close - but then Tom was gone.

He'd gone to Diagon Alley first. Tom had hoped to find a wand, but Ollivanders' was abandoned, the shelves dusty and bare. He had had to settle for the next best thing. In the back-rooms of a dingy, deserted shop named Borgin & Burkes, Tom had found a nasty-looking knife. Eight inches long, it drew blood as Tom ran the ball of his thumb along the blade. Now, it was stuffed beneath his robes, and Tom hoped to draw his sister's blood instead.

Well, there was no more point delaying. Tom took a deep breath, then started down the steeply-sloping stone steps towards his sister. Though he was invisible, and Elizabeth's back was turned, her attention raptly fixed on the fluttering veil, Tom winced at every squeak, every scuff of boot on stone. He had never before been more aware of the sound of his breathing, nor the rustling of his robes as he walked. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, as he crept down the stairs, he slid the knife from beneath his robes. Knife clutched tightly in his right hand, he stepped down into the pit.

Elizabeth was mere feet away. Still, she gazed at the tattered veil, her head tilted curiously now to one side in a strangely cat-like manner. As Tom came up behind her, some tiny part of him screamed to stop, that this was his sister, that this was wrong. Ignoring it, though his stomach was churning violently, Tom slid his knife from beneath the Cloak and struck at Elizabeth's milky-pale throat.

She whirled and grabbed the blade. Her scarlet eyes were gleaming, half-amused, half-angered, and hot blood of precisely the same colour as her eyes flowed from her fingers as Tom's knife bit into her cold skin. Tom tried to wrench his knife free, but Elizabeth's fingers tightened around the blade, yanking him close. With her other hand Elizabeth reached out and tore the Invisibility Cloak off Tom, tossing it aside. She must have been in agony, but her only concession was a small snarl. Beneath their feet, the stone was suddenly slick with crimson blood.

Elizabeth's face was inches away. Tom threw a clumsy left-handed punch at her; Elizabeth ducked it nimbly, then reached for her wand with her one free hand. As she brought it up towards Tom's face, Tom grabbed it and forced it away - just in time. The searing red blast singed his ear, and Elizabeth laughed. She was deceptively strong. Her fingers were slashed almost to the bone, but still she fought, kicking and punching and writhing as Tom forced his knife closer and closer to her exposed pale throat. The knife's razor-sharp edge nicked Elizabeth's skin - and then her wand suddenly grew blindingly-hot, scorching and scalding Tom's fingers, and he released the black-walnut wand with a yell.

Quick as that, Elizabeth slid her wand towards Tom's right hand, and a blinding-white blast sent his knife flashing away from him. It skittered across the stone, bounced once, then skidded to a halt at the edge of the pit. Grinning maliciously, Elizabeth turned her wand on Tom. There was no time to duck, or dive away, or snatch the wand from her grasp. Tom headbutted her. With a muffled, pained cry, Elizabeth staggered backwards, then found herself beneath the archway, unbalanced, tottering backwards towards the veil. She wheeled her arms frantically, recovered her feet - and then Tom was on her again. They crashed to the hard-stone floor of the pit, a rolling tangle of robes and limbs and blood.

Elizabeth clawed furiously at Tom's face with her fingernails, raking and gouging any inch of flesh she could find. It was all Tom could do to throw her off; in the moment's respite that followed he rolled aside and scrabbled to his feet. As Elizabeth rose to her knees, blood gushing from her nose and hands, they both saw it at once; Elizabeth's wand, cast aside a few feet away by the pit wall. Tom staggered towards it, stumbling, dragging an ankle sprained in the fall from the dais. He didn't see Elizabeth coming until she tackled him to the ground. They rolled once, twice - and then Elizabeth was on top of Tom, and her wand was pressed against his throat.

" _Avada Kedav_ -"

Tom slapped the wand aside. As the blinding-green bolt flashed by his ear, he drove a knee into Elizabeth's stomach. She cried out in pain, and her wand fell from her lacerated fingers to clatter to the floor. Tom snatched it up - but then Elizabeth's good hand seized around his own, and her nails were digging into his skin, raising blood. Elizabeth forced Tom's wand-arm to the ground, so the wand was pointing away from herself - pointing across the pit, to where Tom's knife lay, forgotten. _Accio knife_ , he thought desperately.

Elizabeth slapped Tom with her bloodied hand. A hot, metallic taste filled his mouth, and his vision swam for a moment - and then Elizabeth had her wand back, and it was levelled at Tom's chest. For the briefest moment, she seemed to hesitate.

"I missed you," she said. "When you were gone."

Tom smiled. "Me too."

The rattle of steel on stone filled Tom's ears; then all was drowned out by the deafening crackle, and the eyeball-searing red flashes, and the dull punches, one, two, three, in Tom's chest. Looking down, he saw his robes were flooding with blood, and fist-size holes had been torn in the fabric in three different places. Beneath, he could see torn ruined flesh, and rivers of blood spurting from his chest. As the numbing cold swept in, Tom drove the knife into his sister's side.

He didn't have the strength for another blow. His finger suddenly numb, the knife fell from his hands to clatter to the stone ground. Above Tom, as the knife slid from her, Elizabeth's mouth was a tiny, surprised 'o' - and then she slumped sideways to the floor, and Tom's vision was swimming, and the blackness was rushing up.

Tom wasn't sure how long he lay there, while life steadily seeped out of his chest. At some point, though, a weak cough from beside him jolted him from his daze. Glancing to his left, he saw Elizabeth, a few feet away, her back to the pit wall. Her eyes were rapidly glazing over, and there was a flush in her frighteningly-pale cheeks. When she noticed Tom's gaze she coughed again, and a thin trickle of blood ran down from the corner of her mouth to the floor.

"I missed you," she repeated, her voice high and raspy.

Tom looked down at his chest, where his sodden robes had parted to reveal the three fist-sized holes in his torso. "No, you got me."

She laughed, a childlike innocent sound, but the laughter quickly turned to coughing and blood. As Tom, teeth gritted against the sudden, spiking pain, eased himself to a sitting position against the pit wall, Elizabeth's slitted scarlet eyes found the veil once more. She stared at it for a long while, so still that Tom half-thought she might have died.

"You think he's through there?" she asked suddenly. "Father?"

Every breath hurt now, and when they came, they were rattly and wheezy. Tom took a few seconds to gather his strength before he answered. _I don't care!_ he wanted to yell. _Who cares about some long-dead maniac_? Even now, he found himself raging at Lord Voldemort for doing this to his sister. For turning her into this. She could have been so much more. They both could have.

"Maybe," was all he said, following his sister's gaze to the tattered veil. "Maybe we'll see each other through there."

Elizabeth's lips twitched upwards coyly. "We're not dead yet." She jerked her head, a small pained motion, towards her wand, gathering dust on the stone floor six feet away. "Know any good healing spells?"

"Not any that would help me." Tom's lungs were punctured, his ribcage shattered, and he could feel his heartbeat slowing gradually to a trickle. "And while I _do_ love you, Elizabeth, I'm not going to save you."

She chuckled. "Still. When you talk of dying, speak for yourself, Tom."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Elizabeth just grinned that coy grin again. "I have to have _some_ secrets, Tom."

"Fine." With a colossal effort, Tom heaved himself to his feet. His head was swimming, and it took all he had to not crumple to the ground. From somewhere, he found some strength, and took one tottering step, then another. "If you'll excuse me, I won't die in this hole."

But when he glanced over his shoulder, she was gone. Eyes misted over, face frozen in a maddeningly-coy grin, fingers limp and lifeless. Tom snapped his fingers, and the Floo-fire burst into life - but he couldn't leave her here. With the greatest effort it had ever taken him, he turned away from the flames and hobbled back towards his dead sister. He tried to stoop, but his sprained ankle screamed in protest, and he relented. Instead, he held out his hand, and Elizabeth's wand leapt dutifully into it. Gently, he levitated her into the air, arms dangling limply, hair a ragged mess. Tom made sure to tidy it up, brushing it out of her eyes, before levitating her through the veil.

He peered around the other side of the archway, but she was gone. Elizabeth's wand fell from his suddenly-feeble fingers, and he almost fell. _I won't die here_ , he thought again, staggering towards the Floo-fire. _I won't_. He half-leapt, half-fell into the flames. When he emerged onto the front lawn of Hogwarts, darkness had fallen. The castle's lights were a thousand tiny pinpricks in the night, and far away to Tom's left, the tall front doors had been cast open. Warm light was spilling out, and laughter. Tom took a step - then fell to his knees, a series of racking coughs overcoming him.

His vision swam violently, and suddenly Tom was face down in the grass, his heart hammering violently, irregularly, in his ears. His breathing was short, and ragged, and every gasp was an agony. He would die soon, he knew. Perhaps it was merely the loss of blood, but images suddenly flashed before his eyes. A blazing summer sun in the sky, and the streets of Diagon Alley were packed with shoppers once more. Excited children were everywhere, waving toy wands and chasing each other. Platform 9 & ¾, and the air was thick with smoke as the Hogwarts Express chuffed off into the distance. Bright happy faces were pressed to every window.

The Ministry, packed with workers, black-granite walls gleaming. Lily, sitting proud in a neat little office, _Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_ emblazoned on a plaque on her desk. Two new recruits stepped in her door, handsome dark-haired siblings, a boy and a girl, and Lily rose to greet them.

"Build a better world, Lily," Tom murmured, rolling over with the last of his strength to face the stars.

It was then that he saw the cat. The first he saw of it was a pair of gleaming-yellow eyes, growing closer and closer in the darkness. Then it was a shadow, and then the shadow resolved itself into a slender black cat, its white-tipped tail almost luminous in the moonlight. It crept close, its yellow-slitted eyes fixed on Tom. There was a strangely-familiar hint of amusement in those eyes.

"Hello," said Tom, reaching out with a blood-soaked hand to stroke the cat's soft black fur. It _miaowed_ softly in response, and slunk under the crook of his arm. It was warm, and comforting, and as the darkness rushed up, Tom almost felt at peace.


End file.
